


A Thread of Smoke Arising on the Sea

by dedougal



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sent to an English boarding school while his mother tours Europe with his sister, Jensen has to deal not only with the different culture but with his new friendship with the school head boy, Jared. Their comfortable world is destroyed by a war that is supposed to end all wars, where Jensen finds that his time at school is more useful than he might imagine and where his friendship with Jared becomes more than he could ever have dreamed of.</p><p>Warnings/Spoilers:  Implied non-con. This is set before and during the First World War and therefore contains references to war, injuries and casualties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thread of Smoke Arising on the Sea

Part One – September 1911

The train journey had been infinitely more enjoyable than the sea passage. On board ship he had still been under the stern eyes of his mother and every jolt of the waves meant that they were further away from home and Texas and his father. This train meant he was on his own.

His mother did not like to talk about his father. She was already maintaining her residence in New York when he was born, her second son. Jensen sometimes thought he was born just so she had a child to call hers. His big brother, Joshua, was the son his father wanted. Tall, interested in horses and farming and the land. His father was always talking about the land as if it was another member of the family. Jensen was sure it meant more to him than he did. When his sister was born, however, the most dreadful shift occurred. It was as if his mother had the perfect child and Jensen was merely a spare. That dreadful joke his paternal grandfather had made once “You’ve given him an heir and a spare. What else does he need?”

Jensen had gone from shifting between his father’s huge farm and his mother’s elegant town house, comfortable in neither. It was only when his mother decided that his sister needed a European tour to complete her education (something that seemed to involve needlework, painting and music much more than reading and writing) that his mother had come upon her most exquisite form of the obscure revenge she was inflicting on his father. Jensen would go to an English school to finish his schooling. It would make a man of him.

Considering the plenitude of schools offering a complete knowledge of reading, writing, arithmetic and Latin that were on the correct side of the Atlantic Ocean, Jensen felt quite justified in the anger he felt when he thought about being sent to this godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere. He was alone in his compartment, the train being mainly empty, but he refused to stretch out and get comfortable, instead squirreling himself into as small a corner as possible. He did not read but instead glared out of the window, lost in thought.

His private thoughts were rudely interrupted by the door swinging open abruptly. A mysterious shadowed figure stood in the door. It was impossible to see his face in the light from the corridor but Jensen was immediately aware of size. This person was tall, taller than him.

The figure stood in the doorway for a long time. “Can I help you?” Jensen snapped, wanting to go back to being angry and lonely.

“I didn’t realise anyone was in here.” The figure moved into the room. It was a boy, not much older than him, with a soft, hesitant voice. English, of course. Clipped accent so very different from his own rolling vowels. The boy took a seat on the opposite side from Jensen and stretched his long – long – legs out in front of him.

Jensen caught himself staring and looked out the window again. The darkness made the window like a mirror and he could see the boy settling himself on the bench and drawing a book from the recesses of his pocket. The boy had longer hair than Jensen thought quite proper, brown hair, curling around his ears messily. He was slightly pink in the cheeks, maybe from the cold air outside or from running for the train. He let himself watch him, actually finding a little relief from his misery in his contemplation.

“Are you going to Heckleton too?” The boy had put the book down and was looking at Jensen, who turned in surprise. The boy pointed at his neat grey trousers and crisp white shirt. Jensen followed the pointing finger as it gestured before settling on the tie around the boy’s neck. The same tie he was sporting after a shopping trip to an outfitter’s in London.

“Yes.” It was the easiest answer. Then Jensen was aware of how rude it sounded and tried to explain. “My mother and sister are in Europe...” He didn’t want to share all his miseries with a stranger, particularly one it looked like he would have to share a school with for the next year.

“Are you American?” The boy looked fascinated. Jensen felt like some kind of exotic artefact in a museum or a carnival freak show.

“Yes.” Again the single syllable but he left it this time and turned back to the window. The boy didn’t pay attention to the hint.

“That is very very interesting. I don’t think we have ever had an American at Heckleton before.” That was wonderful, Jensen thought. I’m not going to fit in even more. He felt his eyes start to smart but manfully held back any tears yet again. There was no use in crying about any of this. The boy kept talking though. “You’ll be sorry to have missed the first week though.”

“You’ve missed it too? Why?” Jensen wondered if he was being rude but the boy was talking to him and distracting him from all the overwhelming emotions he had running around inside him. It might actually not be so bad if all the boys were like this one. And if they looked like this one... Jensen cut that thought short.

The other boy did not seem to care about proper manners. “Coming back from France. The boat was delayed by storms. I’m Jared by the way. Jared Padalecki.”

Jensen let his brain catch up with the abrupt change in subject. “Jensen Ackles. From Texas.”

The other boy – Jared – whistled soft and low. “That is so...”

“Interesting?” Jensen supplied. Jared grinned hugely at him, seemingly unperturbed by the interruption. Jensen smiled back, a little more hesitantly. “I’ve never been away to school before. I always had tutors. It made sense before my brother went to college.”

Jared composed his face to seriousness. “It’ll be fine. You can always come find me if you need to talk.” He seemed genuine enough, but Jensen knew there was no earthly way he would be seeking out this boy to embarrass himself by disclosing any problems he might be having. He was on his own now.

Jared again kept talking, ignoring Jensen’s lack of an answer. “I’m looking forward to being back. Although I doubt I’ll be saying that in the morning. There will be so much to catch up on and then the rugby will be starting...” Jared slipped into blissful silence thinking hard about his upcoming activities.

Jensen was glad of the silence at first. Then it stretched out so long that he began to miss the other boy’s enthusiasm and company. “What’s rugby?”

Jared stared at him for a moment, completely taken aback by the question. “Rugby? It’s a game. A sport.”

Jensen shrugged. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“But you’ve heard of cricket?” Jared obviously struggled to come to terms with the idea that someone like him would have no idea of the sports that made up so much of the life of the school.

“That’s like baseball?” Jensen’s tentative answer made Jared laugh, full and long, head tossed back and hair bouncing. Jensen didn’t understand what was so funny but he found himself smiling at the sheer joy in the other boy’s face.

When Jared calmed down, he started to explain the rules of cricket. He was halfway through when they reached the station. A carriage stood ready to take them up the long driveway to the building that would be Jensen’s new home for the next year. The school building loomed out of the darkness, huge and imposing, edges merging with the darkness. Jensen tried very hard not to show his nervousness.

 

Jensen’s first week reinforced all his fears. Jared had vanished the minute they exited the carriage, swept away by a group of older boys. He had looked back at Jensen and waved once before his friends dragged him through the imposing doorway. Jensen was left facing the stern eyes of the headmaster, Mr Kripke. He had looked Jensen up and down in silence, while Jensen shifted under his silent scrutiny. Then he turned and left. Jensen had to scramble to follow him.

His companions in the dormitory were not happy to have another boy joining them. They had already decided that the extra wardrobe made an excellent place to keep their tuck boxes conveniently close. They did not dare let the matron see their displeasure but soon made it clear to Jensen, flicking towels against his legs when they were bathing and going out of their way to trip and push him. The masters seemed to take his absence during the first week as a personal insult and landed him with extra work to bring him up to speed with the others. They did not forgive him the current work either. Jensen spent all the time crouched over one book or another, running through pen nibs as he frantically scribbled to catch up. The food was horrible, completely different from anything he’d ever had before, stodgy and lumpy.

The worst, however, was saved for the Wednesday. The entire afternoon was devoted to sport, or games as the boys called them. The others were buoyant about the idea of an afternoon not devoted to lessons. Jensen felt otherwise. First the clothing, which was fine in the heat of a Texas summer but in England? Shorts and an undershirt were not the most conducive outfit to feeling comfortable in the chilly breeze that seemed to blow from the North Pole directly onto the playing field. Secondly, his tanned skin stood out a mile amongst the pale white legs that populated the rest of the school. He had yet to develop the proper complexion suitable for English society. The others made snide comments about peasants and colonials and he ignored them. Lastly, one thing he could not ignore: he had no idea what to do.

He ended up with his face in the mud more often than not. It didn’t escape his notice that some of the others also suffered similar fates but they were much younger than he was. He was not unfit, but the long boat journey and studious lifestyle had meant he had lost some of the muscle mass and wind he’d built up back home, riding or running. He felt exhausted and lost and ready to give in by the time he struggled to follow the others back to their waiting baths. His misery was compounded by the fact that the previously friendly Jared had looked right past him, ignored him thoroughly and may even have been responsible for one of his mud baths. He cursed himself for being so stupid as to think he might have had one friend here.

He had almost made it back to the school when one of the other Sixth Form boys put his hand on Jensen’s shoulder. “I left my jersey on the other end of the field. Go get it.”

Jensen gaped at him. He was exhausted, filthy and now he needed to go get someone else’s bloody sweater. “Go get it yourself,” he answered back, turning to continue on his way. The casual backhanded slap across his face stunned him.

“Boy as pretty as you should know that you’d be expected to fag. Go get it or you’ll end up in much worse trouble. Bring it to my study.” The offhand annoyance of the boy was replaced by menace. He glowered at Jensen and Jensen took a step back in fear. His face stung and he was ashamed to feel tears pricking at his eyes as he turned and walked across the empty field into the darkening twilight.

He hated it here.

The lamps were all lit as he turned back towards the school. It continued to loom there, malevolent and black against the setting sun. The lamps in the windows looked like demon eyes staring at him and the door an open maw ready to consume him. Standing looking at the place wasn’t going to get him clean any sooner, however.

By the time he had got all the mud out of his skin and hair, it was time for supper. He choked down the burnt stew and made his way up to the Sixth form corridor. He had never been up here. He’d stuck to his unfriendly classmates and followed them blindly from pillar to post in an attempt not to get lost.

The hallway was quieter than any he’d come across yet. There wasn’t that feeling of a hundred boys chatting and making mischief behind every wall. On the other hand, all the doors were shut. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. Knocking on the wrong door seemed as frightening as knocking on the correct one.

He stood, frozen, for a long minute. Then a door opened at the far end of the corridor. His breath caught in his chest and Jensen turned to flee. He stopped when a friendly voice called his name. It was Jared.

Jared in his pyjamas.

Jensen stood there, half turned to go and stared, wide-eyed at the sight in front of him. The taller boy’s smile turned more stilted as he couldn’t say anything.

“Did you want something?” he asked, gesturing at Jensen and the sweater in his hand.

Jensen explained the situation, and was pleased when Jared reached out a large hand and battered a door on the opposite side of the corridor.

The boy – Davies, Jared had said his name was - flung the door open, seeing Jensen first. “What took you so long? That’s totally...” He trailed off when he saw Jared standing there. Jared’s face had ceased being so friendly and open. If Jensen had to describe how Jared was looking at Davies he might have come up with some imagery involving insects or scum on the bottom of shoes. Jared took the piece of clothing from Jensen’s hands and thrust it into Davies’ chest.

As Davies staggered back into his room from the force, Jared forced out, “Look after your own belongings in future.” Jensen just stared. Davies shut the door without saying another word.

Jared turned to Jensen and crooked a finger. He was back to being the amiable boy from the train. “Come and have a drink? You can tell me about your week.”

Jensen nodded numbly and followed Jared into his room. He had learned that the Sixth Form had their own study bedrooms. Jared’s seemed barely big enough for the bed and desk and himself. A fire burned brightly in an open grate and the room was warm and stuffy. Jensen felt the last chill from the afternoon spent outside thaw from his bones as Jared gestured to the chair and bed. “Have a seat.”

He watched as Jared pulled a kettle over the fire before sitting on the edge of the bed. He had to move as Jared reached around behind him to snag a cushion from the top of the bed. It brought the heat of Jared’s body very close to him. He felt a flush climb up his neck and spread across his cheeks. He focused on Jared’s back, regretting this when Jared stretched up, pulling the material of his pyjamas up and revealing a strip of bare flesh at his waist. Jensen bit his lip.

Jared turned around, hands still reaching towards the ceiling. Jensen dropped his eyes to the floor, but not before he caught a glimpse of the soft brown hair trailing down towards Jared’s groin. He was surprised to feel Jared’s fingers under his chin forcing him to look up into his hazel eyes.

Jared looked at him sympathetically. “It’s hard to adjust. I remember being miserable for my whole first term.”

Jensen choked in embarrassment as he felt his face flush redder. He didn’t want Jared to think he was some sort of a child. “It’s fine. Just not like home. Much colder.” He got the impression that Jared wasn’t at all fooled by the pretence.

“If you need to talk... Or anything. You know where my door is...” Jared turned to busy himself at the fire, before handing Jensen a chipped brown cup containing tea. “I thought you would be in the Sixth Form.”

“I have to pass the Fifth first. The masters were not certain about my academic standing.” Jensen took at grateful sip of the tea. He told Jared all about the subjects he had been studying with his tutors and how different it was here.

Jensen stood up to leave, reluctantly, when he had finished the drink. Jared stood to show him out. Before he opened the door, he stood close to Jensen to look directly in his eyes. Jensen wasn’t sure what was more distracting – the light hazel or the feel of Jared’s breath softly caressing his cheek - as he said, “Come and see me, again. Promise?”

Jensen nodded dumbly and fled along the corridor back to his dormitory before lights out. He lay awake in the darkness for a long time.

He’d always known that there was something wrong with him. When his friend, Christian, had started to talk constantly about how attractive girls were and inveigle Jensen into plots to kiss them, Jensen had gone along. He had even had a few stolen kisses. They were nothing compared to the time Christian had asked him to practise with him. That brief fumble had led to a very embarrassing incident...

Jensen felt his cock begin to fill at the memory. He’d ended up rubbing against Christian’s firm thigh until his cock had exploded inside his trousers. Christian had not spoken to him afterwards and always hushed Jensen whenever he tried to talk about it. He quietly slipped his hand inside his pyjamas and rubbed at himself. The image of Christian in his head was replaced by the image of Jared, tall and muscular. Those hazel eyes, the broad sweep of his jaw begging to be stroked. He pressed his arm across his mouth when he gasped through his completion.

Jensen thought that his thoughts from the night before were written across his face when Jared waved at him at breakfast. He flushed crimson but still raised his hand to greet him.

One of his younger classmates nudged his shoulder. Jensen turned to him quizzically. “Padalecki. Is he your friend?”

“We met on the train. He seems nice.” Jensen shrugged, trying to remain casual.

The boy giggled. “Never hurts to be friends with the Head Boy. And he’s so manly and tall...” Jensen shot a sharp glance at the boy to see him staring at Jared with an expression that Jensen reckoned would be perfectly at home on his own face when considering Jared.

“What?” He was desperate to agree with the boy but, on the other hand, he didn’t want to make his life any more difficult here. His shock at the boy’s admission was completely unfeigned. The boy shrugged and whatever had prompted him to converse with Jensen vanished. He turned back to his friends and again Jensen was left alone.

 

The rest of the week passed in a blur and before Jensen knew where he was it was Sunday morning. He had relied on his memories of Jared’s kindness to make it through the rest of the week but was glad that there were no lessons that morning. He may have to follow the others to church and go through the motions of writing home to his parents but he would not, at least, be forced to reveal the gaps in his knowledge and be humiliated for them.

The walk to the church took them past the rugby pitch and out into the nearby village. The boys walked in silence, heads down and the masters prowling the long crocodile watching for the slightest transgressions. Jensen kept his head down and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes as he slipped into line. He jumped slightly when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked back into Jared’s friendly face.

The group moved forward at a slow pace, the lower school seemingly finding it difficult to maintain an even speed. Jared leant close to Jensen’s ear. “You have to watch Captain Johnson in church. We take bets as to how long it will take for him to fall asleep.” Jared’s voice danced with mischief.

Jensen nodded and stepped forward not daring to speak. When they arrived at the village church, a typically quaint and pretty sandstone building, he was glad to find Jared stuck to his side as they pressed into the narrow pews. Jared bowed his head and started to whisper under his breath. Jensen thought he must be praying, until he caught the drift of Jared’s words and dropped his head to hear more clearly.

“I hope the vicar is in a good mood this week. Last week was apparently all fire and brimstone. Exciting stuff but some of the younger boys actually had nightmares.” Jared’s eyes slid sideways to meet Jensen’s and he flashed his wicked grin. Jensen found himself watching Jared’s dimples flex and twinkle. He composed his face into a serious, thoughtful mask as the first hymn was announced and they rose ungracefully to their feet.

Church was both different and just the same as at home. The vicar was as dull as any pastor Jensen had run across, talking in that sing song voice that lulled Captain Johnson and a fair few of the congregation off to sleep. The hymns were mainly the same, the prayers and texts familiar. However he would not be able to recall any specifics. Upon returning to sitting after the first hymn, Jared sat even closer to Jensen and pressed his leg and arm firmly against him. Jensen didn’t want to move, despite the way the fire of Jared’s body set the right side of his body aflame. He was glad of the coat across his lap, holding it close with his left hand when they had to stand and sit. He left his right pressed into Jared’s leg. It got worse during the sermon, as Jared starting stroking the fingers of his hand over Jensen’s knuckles.

Jensen peeked under his eyelashes, to see Jared staring thoughtfully at the vicar, a slight flush starting to appear across his cheeks. He shifted his eyes to Jensen’s, seemingly feeling the pressure of his gaze. His hand stilled, then Jensen felt the tip of Jared’s index finger slide along his thigh. Jensen prayed then, he prayed that this service would never end and that Jared would never stop touching him. The vicar seemed to take that as his signal to wind down, and they stood for the declaration of faith, Jensen stumbling over the responses. Jared held his coat in his arms now, casually shifting it across his lap as he sat down.

Jared was behind him on the long, torturous walk back to school. They were forbidden to talk to each other, but the English master seemed to think it perfectly acceptable to engage Jared in conversation about a new novel he had read. Jared’s voice was light and polite and so different from the low wicked tones he’d used to mock the sincerity of church earlier. Jensen wondered at the difference.

 

He was unsure what to put in his letter to his father. He had been told to write a letter home just the same as every other boy in the place. The masters sat them at their usual desks and Jensen realised that this was just another lesson when the master slapped the desk of the boy in front of him to correct his spelling. Jensen started to write more seriously then, careful not to mention anything that would mean trouble for him. The stench of the master’s breath behind him, a cacophony of rotting food and stale alcohol, was the only warning he received that his letter was being read. The master moved on without commenting and Jensen felt safe drawing in draughts of air to clear the smell from his lungs.

Jared caught him as he headed away from lunch. “We have some free time now. What were your plans?”

Jensen had not really thought of doing anything beyond slumping in a chair for an hour then catching up with some more school work. He explained as much to Jared, who pulled a beautiful watch from his uniform pocket. “I suggest you do the work first and then come to my study around four. For tea. I should be able to wheedle some cakes from Mrs Ogden in the kitchen.”

Jensen nodded blindly. He couldn’t make his mouth move or words come to mind. He was going to be spending more time alone with Jared and the excitement that had sustained him through the long church service in the morning rose once more to the fore. Jared patted him on the shoulder as he headed off.

Jensen rushed through the rest of his work, ignoring the teasing of his study mates for working when he didn’t have to. He was able to finish up the Virgil translation quicker than he expected because he’d studied that passage before. Despite this, he was still working when the large clock in the hall way chimed four. He tidied the books away and washed his hands in a fever of excitement before knocking on Jared’s door.

“Ah, Ackles. Little bit late. But better late than never.” Jared’s eyes were wide, trying to communicate some message to Jensen. The use of his surname was warning enough.

Jensen thought quickly and drawled out in his politest Texas folksy manner, “If you’re still sure the invitation stands...”

“Certainly, old chap.” Jared drew him into the room. Arranged on the bed were three other smaller boys from the first form. “I was reminded that I needed to speak with all the new boys. Meet Todd, Richards and...” Jared paused to search through his memory. “Burns?” he guessed.

The three boys nodded. Jensen was at a loss as to what to do next and so apparently was Jared. Then his manners kicked in. “I’m Ackles, Jensen Ackles. I’m from Texas. Where do you come from?”

This led to a flurry of explanations and before he knew it, he was sitting on the floor beside Jared’s chair listening to three small, equally homesick boys tell their life stories. Jared provided cakes and tea and interjected his own comments. It turned out that he knew brothers of two of the boys which made them seem happier.

The bell rang to warn the boys that evening prayers would be starting shortly. Jared held Jensen back as he waved the small boys off down the corridor and shut the door behind them. He kept a hold of Jensen’s shoulder as he pushed him against the door and fitted his body against him. Then he dropped his lips to Jensen’s softly, gently. It was so hesitant in comparison to the firm hold that Jensen hesitated in responding a little too long.

Jared drew back. “I apologise. I didn’t mean to... I thought you...”

Jensen still couldn’t say anything, but he raised his hand to his lips and brushed the tips of his fingers against them. His lips didn’t feel any different. He looked at Jared. “I think I was surprised.” He flushed at his forwardness, but pushed up against Jared more firmly, placing his lips solidly on Jared’s. Jared responded in kind.

They were interrupted by the second bell for prayers. Jared jumped back, his lips red and slick. “We’ll be late.”

Jensen was tempted to tell him to hang prayers and to hang school and the sodding masters and just spend another few minutes kissing him. His momentary courage had deserted him and he nodded, straightening his tie and running a hand through his hair to smooth it. He followed Jared down to the hall and slipped into his seat just as the masters shuffled onto the platform at the front.

 

The second week was a little better. He managed to finally catch up with lessons to most masters’ satisfaction. He realised that the Mathematics master was never likely to be satisfied and he kept his head down and worked hard anyway. He started catching sympathetic glances from other of his classmates whenever Mr Singer picked on him for a particularly difficult calculation. And whenever he found himself feeling dreadful he merely thought back to the feel of Jared’s lips on his and found he could get through the rest of the week.

That memory also helped him ignore some of the nasty comments that he realised were being passed on the state of his virginity behind his back. When he turned out for games on Wednesday, the malevolent Davies and his cronies were standing shoulder to shoulder blocking his path. They insisted on walking behind him, discussing how tight his ass would be. Jensen resisted the urge to either run or to place his hands on that delicate part of his anatomy to hide it from their cruel gaze.

 

Davies stopped him again before Jensen was able to escape to the safety of his own dorm. “I seem to have forgotten my sweater again, Ackles. Fetch it.” His eyes were black and cruel as Jensen trotted off into the deepening evening, heading for the opposite end of the rugby pitch. He was making his way back when he realised Davies was still watching him, an unreadable expression on his arrogant face. He didn’t slow, though the temptation was great. Instead Jensen held the shirt in front of him like some kind of shield.

“Here you are.” He thrust it at Davies.

Davies stood watching him for a long moment before reaching out his hand to take it from him. “Did you know my father went to this school?” Jensen shook his head. “My father, my grandfather and even my great-grandfather.” Davies suddenly crowded up close and Jensen rocked back on his heels. “This school used to be all about tradition and respectability. Now they’ll let anyone in.” Davies’ voice was blunt and his breath rasped out harshly. Jensen kept his eyes fixed straight ahead of him and refused to meet his eyes. Davies poked a hard finger into his sternum. “They’ll let in anyone, even stupid Americans. And they’ll make anybody Head Boy. Even that stupid Padalecki.”

Jensen found his eyes shooting up at that. “Jared is...” His courage failed him at the flash of malicious glee that spread across Davies’ face.

“Jared is it? I knew you were bending over for him.” Davies’ breath was hot and rank against his cheek as Davies leaned closer. “I wonder if he’ll share.”

Jensen pushed past him, not caring if there were consequences later, and ran to his dormitory. The other boys were sitting around rehashing the afternoon’s game, eyes bright and hands waving in excitement. Jensen felt old and worn out, decades more than mere years older in the face of their innocent enthusiasm. One of them looked over to him and called out, sympathetically, “You get made to fag again?”

Jensen nodded, gathering his wash things. He was more than running late. He tried to work out if he could get away with only washing visible areas and clean himself more properly later when the dinner bell clanged. He has less time than he thought. He swore under his breath as the other boys clattered out of the dormitory.

He saw the master saying grace glare at him as he slipped into his seat. He wasn’t that late but it was enough to be in serious trouble. He was unsurprised to hear his name called at the end of the meal. He walked to the front of the refectory as the other boys filed out.

The headmaster stood in front of him, balding head shining in the lamplight and grim mouth tight. Jensen noted with some humour that he was taller than the man. “Mr Ackles. Punctuality is not an optional guideline here at Heckleton. Follow me.”

Jensen had no choice. He walked a few steps behind the headmaster as they made their way to his study. The headmaster went to a bookshelf on the far side of the room and lifted down a long yellow cane. Jensen watched in horror as the man swished it through the air. It made a sharp, cutting sound. Surely...

The worst imaginings of his mind were confirmed. “Since this is your first offence here at Heckleton, this shall be swift. Bend over and put your hands on the edge of the desk.” Jensen shuffled forward. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been switched before. He and Josh had deserved the dubious pleasure of their father’s broad belt more than once as unruly boys. It felt completely different to have someone – a stranger – standing behind him with such steely unconcern.

Jensen’s hands flew off the desk automatically as the first stroke landed. Kripke’s voice was a sharp as the sound of the cane as he ordered him to keep his hands on the desk. Three more strokes along the same orientation as the first, crossing the welts and compounding the pain. Jensen stayed gripping the desk as Kripke replaced the cane on his desk. Jensen stood stiffly when he heard he was dismissed, the voice of the headmaster sounding as if he was speaking from a long distance. Jensen shuffled from the room.

There was a mirror hanging in the corridor opposite. Jensen glanced up into it, surprised to see his face reflected. His eyes were red and puffy and there were tear tracks down his cheeks. Jensen looked at himself for a long moment, disgusted at what he saw. He wiped at the tearstains and slowly made his way along the corridor. At every step, a wave of fresh agony spread from the welts on his backside.

He rounded the corner into the corridor leading to the dorms to see Davies blocking his way once more, smirking. He was forced to brush the wall to avoid him and hissed softly as his wounds hit the wall. “Better get used to that, Ackles,” Davies sneered.

Jensen slept on his stomach that night.

 

Davies seemed determined to find as many demeaning jobs as possible for Jensen to perform. He made him retrieve books and forgotten articles of clothing at first. Then it was cleaning sports shoes and lighting fires in his study. Anything not done to Davies’ satisfaction was met with a blow. The other boys whispered among themselves about whether to say anything or not. Normally only lower school boys were expected to fag like this, apparently. The other boys in his classes and in his dormitory seemed to shy away from him, obviously scared that Davies and his group of friends would turn their attentions to them if they were too friendly with him.

Jensen soon found that the best way to avoid being made late to class or to meals was to avoid Davies as much as possible. He ended up hiding in his dormitory as long as he could and ensuring he was last to leave the classroom. This strategy seemed to be bearing fruit as Jensen managed to elude him for near on a week. Games proved his downfall once more.

Davies caught him as he was ducking around a group of younger boys enthusiastically discussing the various highlights of the game. Jensen had his head down. He crashed into Davies without even noticing him standing there.

“Ackles. There you are. I’ve been missing your company.” Davies’ voice was arrogant and dismissive. Jensen didn’t say anything. “Go fetch my jersey.”

Jensen looked at him steadily. “No.”

“I said, go fetch my jersey.” Davies’ eyes narrowed. He folded his arms across his chest.

“No,” Jensen repeated. He felt his resolve start to waver under Davies’ cruel gaze. He bit his lip and remained still.

One of the masters trotted past, carrying a rugby ball. He glared at the pair. “Ackles. Do what he says.” Jensen didn’t have enough courage to face down one of the masters as well. He turned to head for the far end of the pitch. Before he could leave, the master said, “You really have to teach him proper discipline, Davies. These colonials...”

Davies’ face turned maliciously delighted. “Hear that, Ackles. Report to my study after dinner.”

The master nodded in satisfaction as Jensen kept walking. The fear of what might happen meant he didn’t even notice the concerned looks the others threw his way as he retrieved the sweater.

 

Jensen stood nervously in front of the door. He debated not lifting his hand to knock, to walking away but the consequences of not going in were almost as bad as he might face there. His knock was soft and hesitant but the door was flung open immediately. They were waiting for him.

It wasn’t just Davies. There were three other boys known for being the lynchpin of any forward drive in rugby. They were brutish thugs, with broad shoulders and deep voices. Jensen knew they terrorised the lower school. And apparently they were going to terrorise him too. He straightened his shoulders and entered the room.

It was perhaps the wrong move. The room was tightly packed and Jensen had no other place to go than to stand in front of them all. Davies shut the door behind him and locked it, the key grating harshly as it turned. Jensen stood uncomfortable as Davies took a seat on the low ottoman near the fire.

“Ackles.” Davies’ voice was mocking and dark. “You know why you’re here.”

Jensen once more thought about defying the boy. He was building himself up to it. He opened his mouth for all his courage to leave him the instant he saw Davies’ fist clench at his side. He nodded instead, hating himself. Jensen expected to be ordered to bend over the desk or the ottoman but Davies’ next words took the wind out of his sails.

“You think you’re better than anyone else here. You haven’t had the same training as the rest of us. So we’re going to give it all to you. All that training.” Jensen kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “Strip.”

Jensen hesitated. He obviously delayed too long as the boy behind him stood up from his seat on the bed and pulled at his blazer. Jensen held on for a moment but the boy was too strong. “I’ll do it.” His voice was quiet but they heard him all the same. There was no noise but the odd crackle and spit of a log on the fire as Jensen removed the rest of his clothing. He stood in the middle of the room, his clothes bundled in his hands for a long moment until Davies reached out and took them. Jensen could feel the flush spread from his cheeks down onto his chest. He cursed his fair skin.

 

Jensen stood in the corridor outside the room for a long moment, hands pressed against the cold, smooth wall. He rested his forehead there too, wincing slightly as the cold lessened the pain of the bruise on his temple. He’d been caught there by an elbow as he raised up to protest at a rough hand.

He leaned harder against the wall, breath quickening. He had not protested enough. He had let them do whatever they wanted in order to get them off his back and he knew then and there that that would never happen. They’d keep taunting him, pushing him and forcing him until he broke. Because he was weak. He was as weak as his father had said, throwing the words across the dinner table to hurt his mother.

Jensen felt himself start to cry and pressed his face into the cool wall.

A door opened and a gust of laughter swept along the corridor. He knew that laugh. It had to be Jared. Jensen turned his face, hoping he wouldn’t notice him, but Lady Fortune wasn’t looking at him with favour tonight. He heard the laughter cease as if a switch had been turned and then Jared whispered something to the boys who were there and they ran past.

Jensen jerked away from the gentle hand that laid itself softly on his shoulder but that forced his face away from the wall. Jared gasped, a sharp, sudden intake of breath, but didn’t say anything as he led Jensen more firmly by the elbow to his room. Jensen kept his eyes averted. He didn’t want to look at Jared, didn’t want to see himself in the mirror over Jared’s chest of drawers. Jared let him sit on the bed and did not say a thing.

There was a knock at the half open door and Jared took something from the person who was there before firmly closing the door in their face. Jensen heard their footsteps slowly walking away after a long minute. Then he started at the swipe of a warm cloth on his cheek. Jared held a soft cloth in his hand and was wiping at the tears and blood and other stains on Jensen’s face. Jensen looked up in surprise.

Jared’s eyes were a mass of contradictory emotions. There was not the disgust that Jensen had expected to find, but a furious anger, steely determination, gentle kindness and, most dreadful of all, pity. Jared opened his mouth to say something but shut it again to wash away the mess. Jensen didn’t want to think about what Jared must be seeing but he couldn’t help hissing when the cloth drew over the cut on his cheek. Jared’s hand stilled, then returned the cloth to the bowl of water and kept washing.

Jensen could hear the clock ticking loudly. It was the only sound he heard over his own harsh, broken breathing and Jared’s occasional murmurs of concern. Jared was obviously satisfied with his ministrations as he stepped back. Jensen’s stomach rebelled at the look of concern on his face and he felt his gorge rise. Jared understood what was happening a dragged a bowl from under the bed. Jensen slipped to his knees and emptied the contents of his stomach into it. He kept heaving, even when there was nothing left.

Jared ran his hands soothingly over Jensen’s back, seemingly ignoring the stench. Jensen hung his head over the bowl, panting. He winced away as Jared’s hands pressed against a particularly bad bruised part of his side. Jared’s hands stilled, then he helped Jensen back on the bed. First he wiped his face with a clean bit of the cloth. Then he started to unbutton Jensen’s shirt.

When Jensen became aware of what was happening, he grabbed at the material, trying to hold it closed. Jared was gentle but persistent. He pulled the shirt free from where it had stuck to Jensen’s skin. Jensen fixed his eyes over Jared’s shoulder now, looking at the painting he had hung on the far wall. Jared’s hands remained gentle as the cloth wiped across his torso but it still hurt when he caught the edges of places elbows and fists had slammed into or where fingers had pinched and twisted too hard. Jensen knew his fair skin would bear the marks for a long time.

That realisation seemed to set off some reaction in him. Jensen started to tremble, then shake. Jared let him go as Jensen lay back on the bed, drawing his legs up and wrapping his arms around himself. Jared climbed off his knees and went to his dresser. He pulled out a pair of blue pyjamas, made of soft and worn flannel, before coming back to the bed.

“I want you to get into these. I’m going to leave the room.” His voice was low and calm, the sort of voice Jensen might use with a skittish young horse. “Then you should get under the blankets.”

The words penetrated Jensen’s incapable mind slowly but Jared left the room when he sat up and reached for the pyjamas. He pulled the shirt from his back and slipped out of the rest of his clothes. Jensen reached for the cloth to wipe the worst of the mess off the rest of his body, pointedly avoiding looking. The pyjamas were too big for him, but he obeyed Jared’s instructions and climbed into the bed. It smelled of Jared.

Jensen lay there, eyes open, the events of the evening replaying in his mind. He lay there for a long time before Jared came back.

 

Jared had offered to bring Matron but Jensen couldn’t face the humiliation. Instead he lay in Jared’s bed, in Jared’s pyjamas and watched as Jared moved around the room quietly, banking the fire and undressing quickly and efficiently. Jensen tried to keep his eyes shut during that, but every time he closed his eyes, Davies and his friends were painted on the back of them.

Jared drew a blanket off the end of the bed and settled himself in the armchair beside the fire. Jensen had spent happy evenings in that chair, laughing at Jared’s jokes or trying to complete some impossible task set by the vindictive masters. Jensen realised that nothing would be innocent now.

He must have drifted off to sleep at some point, because he came too with Jared shaking his shoulder gently and calling his name. Jared sounded panicked and when Jensen looked closely at him, he saw he was scared.

“Sorry...” Jensen began.

“Shhh. You were having a nightmare. I was concerned for you.” Jared sat carefully on the edge of the bed. Jensen couldn’t stop himself shrinking away. Jared jumped up and returned to his chair, replacing the blankets around his body. Jensen returned to watching him, eyes fixed wide, and Jared returned the look. “I wish I could tell you that you’re safe now. I’m going to keep you safe, Jensen. I want to keep you safe.”

Jensen heard the urgent fervour in Jared’s voice, but he knew that there was nothing that Jared could do. A master would be unhappy with his work and would send him to be beaten again. And worse, they could send him to Jared. Jensen felt a chill crawl up his spine and he shivered. Jared was on his feet in an instant, placing his own blanket over Jensen, hands careful not to touch.

Jared sat back in his seat. He had pulled his dressing gown on. He started to talk, in a soft, low halting voice. “I hate this place so much. I always try to remind myself that it is the way it was when my father, my brother, my grandfather came. Tradition and honour and duty. But what about tradition says we have to beat small boys senseless. I can’t tell you the number of masters who cane with one hand in their pocket.” Jared rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I’ve been beaten so many times that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sit right on a hard bench ever again.”

Jensen didn’t say anything.

Jared looked at him. “Even so, there’s no reason for Davies to have reacted in the way he did. Not even if you... If you...”

“Are American?” Jensen hissed the words out.

Jared’s voice was so soft that Jensen had to strain to hear it. “Not even if you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” He didn’t speak again, looking into the low flames of the fire rather than meeting Jensen’s eyes again.

Jensen fell asleep again, eventually.

 

There were no direct consequences. Davies would not be expelled – never be expelled. He had been an upstanding member of the school community for all the years he had been there. He was a prefect. He was captain of the rugger squad and had won colours for fives and cricket. And his father was a prominent member of the House of Lords. Jensen quickly learned that a stiff upper lip meant more than not showing emotion. It also meant ignoring the pain of others.

Indirectly, however, his life improved. Many of the masters stopped treating him like an unwelcome stepchild and more like a pupil. He found himself ahead in some of the classes due to his tutor back in Texas and was easily able to maintain his place at the top of the class. Sometimes, he was even praised. Jared led the way in isolating Davies from the society in the school. He explained it to Jensen as “sending someone to Coventry”. Jensen didn’t understand the reference but cottoned onto the idea that no one spoke to Davies or his friends. They acted like they didn’t exist and he followed their lead.

Jensen found it easier to ignore everything except from his school work. He worked and he slept and ignored Jared when he tried to talk to him. He was able to make it through most nights without nightmares if he read after lights out with a stolen candle. This worked until Matron found out what he was doing. Then the nightmares returned. The other boys in the dormitory stole candles for him after that.

The nightmares always started in the same way. He was walking the corridors of the school and found himself in the Sixth Form corridor. Sometimes he had something in his hands. A door would open and he’d find himself on his knees, a boy looming over him. Most of the time it was Davies or one of his goons but once, worst of all, it was Jared standing over him. In his dreams, Jared was just as callous and as interested in his own pleasure as the other boys had been.

Jensen found it easier to avoid Jared after that. Unwanted images from his night terrors caused a chill to run through him. It was unseemly to be found shaking or cowering in a corner of the library rather than out on the sports pitches. Jared tried to drag him out, saying that fresh air would do him the world of good. Jensen shook his head mutely and pushed at the offered hand. Jared told him he’d feel better in time. Jensen was not so certain.

Jared was not happy with this state of affairs and soon ran through his short store of patience. He would seek Jensen out during prep time and sit at the desk next to him. Sometimes, much to the shock of his classmates, Jared would sit next to him at meal time, carrying on entirely one-sided conversations as Jensen ate steadily and the others sat in awe of the head boy joining them. Jared talked about sports and articles he had read in the daily newspaper. Sometimes he talked about places he had visited or wanted to visit.

Jensen held out for as long as he could. Until Jared started talking about Texas. “According to Buffalo Bill, it’s all Indians out there and horse riding in Texas.”

“That’s not right. We don’t all ride horses. There are cities there too.” Jensen spoke without thinking.

Jared shot him a blinding smile, and Jensen remembered he was supposed to be ignoring him. Jared needled him again. “What about Indians? Have you chased any off your land?”

Jensen let out a soft snort of amusement but returned to his meal. He thought about the encounter later. Wasn’t he hurting himself by ignoring Jared? Jared had been the only thing making this place bearable. Jensen wondered for a long time about whether Jared would mind that he didn’t want to touch him anymore. Was that all he was expecting from Jensen?

It took Jensen another week before he got up the courage to return to the corridor where Jared and Davies’ studies were located. He paced the corridor three or four times before knocking on Jared’s door. Jared was still in his uniform and had ink stains on his fingers and on his cheek. He was surprised to see Jensen and stood in the door staring for a minute with his mouth wide open.

“You’ll catch flies if you stay like that,” Jensen informed him.

Jared remembered his manners and invited him in. “Do you want tea? What are you after? Do you want me to leave the door open?”

The flood of questions and the unexpected solicitude reassured Jensen. Jared was glad to be his friend. Only his friend. “I was having some trouble with this French.”

 

“Term is almost finished,” Jared stated, late one evening as Jensen lay on his bed completing his essay for Composition.

Jensen looked up warily. Jared normally came out and said exactly what he wished and there was something tentative here. “December does mean Christmas.” The other boys in the dormitory had been in a frenzy of excitement speculating about the food and the presents and the fact they were returning home for the first time since summer.

“What are you intending on doing?” Jared watched him carefully, as if he was scared Jensen was going to bolt any moment.

“I believe I’ll be staying here. My mother and sister are in Athens and there is no point in me crossing the Atlantic. I’d need to turn around the moment my feet touched American soil.” Jensen tried to shrug off the fact he still felt homesick and missed his family despite their abandonment of them.

Jared thought carefully for a long moment before opening his mouth again. “Come home with me.” He blurted the words quickly, obviously afraid of how Jensen would take them.

Jensen’s first thought was “Why?” closely followed by a burning realisation that Jared really did like him and not just pity him. He thought about the invitation for a short while. “Are you sure I will not be imposing?”

“You’ve become more British than the British with your manners.” Jared tried to joke. But he was still nervous about something. “I really want you there. And my parents are in India so it will be you and me. And the servants, of course.”

“Just the two of us?” Jensen wondered at this. In some ways he longed for the time that all he had desired was Jared alone. But too much had changed since then.

Jared understood this. “My brother told me in his last letter that he might be there with some of his University friends but that it was not certain.” Jared looked Jensen straight in the eyes. “And I want my friend there and not here, all alone.”

“I would not be alone here. There’re the masters and the other boys who have to stay.” Jensen laid out the reasons for him not to go in his head. There were many but the fact that Jared would be alone was something he could not abide. “But then you would be alone.”

There was something dark lurking in Jared’s eyes now. “I don’t want to be alone, either.”

Jensen nodded. “Then I’ll come.”

 

Jensen had known that Jared’s father was Right Honourable or something but knowing it and seeing the house that came with it were two very different things. It could not be described as a castle nor as a mansion but it was definitely somewhere in between. His Texas eyes took in solid sandstone walls with crenulations and gargoyles and huge ivy covered windows. Somewhat different from the rather more simple buildings back home. Even his mother’s home in New York was simple compared to this.

Jared didn’t care, piling out of the carriage with enthusiasm. He looked back guiltily at Jensen when he realised Jensen was staring at the building in front of him and not following him towards the open door. “Come on. I can’t wait to give you the tour.”

Jensen followed numbly as his friend pulled him from room to room. Luckily fires were lit in most of the rooms to ward off the ancient chill of the stones. Jensen did not want to think about how cold it must become in here when the fires were allowed to go out. Instead the roaring, crackling fires and the gas mantles did not clash as much as make the place warm and welcoming. Jared’s parents had apparently covered as much of the bare floor as possible with enormous carpets “from Constantinople” Jared assured him. He walked, open mouthed, behind the chattering Jared, who pointed out everything from the room where Queen Elizabeth was supposed to have stayed to the place he’d carved his initials when he was six.

Jared finally ran down outside a closed door. He took a deep breath before admitting, “This is my room.” He pushed the door open and gestured for Jensen to go in before him.

Jensen took a long look around the room, turning slowly. Childhood paraphernalia still had a place here, with a battered rocking horse shoved into a corner. A cricket bat and some tennis balls cluttered the floor around it. A bookcase held a selection of battered books tracing the years of Jared’s schooling. Most surprisingly, there was an easel set up at one end of the room. A bare canvas stood upon it.

“Why do you have that?” Jensen asked finally, pointing.

Jared blushed. “I like to paint. Sometimes.” He quickly moved through the room and flung his coat and scarf onto the bed. “I asked them to give you the room next door. Jeff’s old room.” Jared pushed back past Jensen into the corridor. His voice floated back into the room and Jensen followed it once more. “In here.”

This room was very similar to Jared’s. It was full of the last of the winter sun and by its light Jensen could see a figure slumped on the bed. He turned to Jared who was frozen in the middle of the room. Jared’s face fell slowly, turning from excited joy to chagrined frustration. Then he panicked.

Jensen let Jared shut the door of his room before turning to him. “Your brother?”

Jared nodded glumly. “Guess he managed to get home after all.”

There was a soft knock at the door. Jared opened it and the smile came back onto his face. “Mrs G!”  
he cried, wrapping his arms around her tiny frame. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Master Jared.” Jensen started to hear his friend addressed in such a formal manner. “This’ll be your friend, then.”

Jared turned to Jensen to introduce him. “Mr Jensen Ackles, late of Texas.” Jensen was sure Jared was never going to surmount his amazement and delight at this piece of information. “Mrs Gilbert, our housekeeper.” He squeezed the woman fondly against his side.

Jensen shook her hand, formally, murmuring, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Mrs Gilbert shook off Jared and glared at him. “You could learn some manners from your friend. Now then. Your brother and his friends arrived two days ago.” Mrs Gilbert frowned a little. “Your friend can stay in the guest room above the old stables. I kept the one closest to the kitchen free.”

“There’s no way Jensen can stay over there. He’d get lost all the time,” Jared protested. Jensen tried to defend his navigation skills to no avail. “He’ll share with me.”

Jensen ducked his head to avoid the knowing look the housekeeper gave him. “It’s no trouble. I’ll find my way around.” In his head, he tried to remember if Jared had pointed out an old stable block or even the kitchens. He could not quite remember. There had been so much to take in and Jared was enthusiastic and spoke so very quickly, changing from one topic to another almost as quickly as he’d began.

Jared would not hear a word of it, however, and Mrs Gilbert arranged for the footmen to bring up the camping bed used during the summer holidays. Jared grinned as he got his way and dragged Jensen down to the drawing room to play cards until tea.

 

Jensen hadn’t really considered what being in the same house, the same room, as Jared all the time would entail. Jared was always talking or moving. He showed Jensen things from his childhood and made Jensen play board games that were covered in dust and had missing pieces. He told Jensen all about the history of the house and his family and, by the end of the day, Jensen had something of a headache. The only time Jared was truly quiet was at dinner. They had successfully managed to avoid the others in the house by remaining in Jared’s room. They heard footsteps and shouting occasionally. In the afternoon, a gramophone started up, the music distorted by the distance.

Dinner was different. Jared insisted they change into something smart and led the way to the dining room. It turned out that Jeff wanted to show off to his friends and throw something of a formal dinner. There were even young ladies there, friends of Jeff’s from University apparently. Jensen and Jared sat down one end of the table and ignored everyone else, keeping their heads down. They were forced to look up and pose by one of Jeff’s friends who was showing off his latest toy, a camera that he could develop pictures from by himself.

Jensen had never seen Jared uncomfortable like this. His usual easy manner had vanished and he seemed to be constantly tugging at the neck of his collar. Jensen sympathised. The stiff starch really did chafe. Jared’s brother also seemed to sense his discomfort, but his solution was to tell his friends to keep Jared’s glass filled up with wine. Jensen sipped slowly, hoping to keep his full enough to stop Jeff tormenting him. Even so, he could feel the alcohol flooding his body, sending waves of heat from his belly out. Jared was in a worse state and, after dinner was over, Jensen made a discreet sign to one of the servers that he should help him take Jared back to their room.

Jeff tried to stop them going, but he was pretty far into his cups as well and no match for Jensen’s quiet persuasion. Jensen was glad of the servant’s help as Jared’s long limbs were definitely unwieldy. With a combined effort, they settled him on top of his covers and Jensen told the servant he’d take care of it from here.

Jensen hadn’t really thought about what that meant.

He started by removing Jared’s shoes and socks, placing them neatly on the floor. Then he unbuttoned the black jacket and lifted Jared up gingerly to push it off his shoulders. Collar, tie and shirt were easy after that. Jared even tried to help with them, huge clumsy paws flailing ineffectually at the tiny pearl buttons. Then Jensen had to tackle Jared’s trousers. He slowly unfastened the buttons and decided to leave it at that. He could cover Jared with a blanket and he’d be comfortable. Jensen was aware of Jared’s blurred eyes on him as he tugged the covers from under his body and started to cover him. Jared seemed agitated about the trousers and wriggled about working them down. Jensen gave in and helped him slide them down his legs, placing them carefully over the back of a chair.

Jared lay there, tangled in his covers. Jensen came back over to help him straighten up and be comfortable. Jared’s hand caught his and he pulled Jensen down beside him on the bed. Jensen didn’t want to offend his friend by struggling, so gave in. Jared’s breath reeked of the alcohol he’d consumed and Jensen coughed as the rank smell hit his face. Jared wasn’t to be dissuaded.

“Jensen?” he said, in that not whisper of the truly inebriated.

“Yes, Jared?” Jensen replied, hoping he would fall asleep quickly so Jensen could escape back to the questionable comfort of the camp bed.

“You’re very special to me. I hope you know that.” Jared was staring right into his eyes. Jensen felt a little uncomfortable and hoped Jared wouldn’t remember this in the morning.

“We’re good friends,” he hazarded in reply.

Jared sighed heavily. “I like being your friend. I liked being more. But I would never force you.” His head whipped back on the pillow. “You look so beautiful.”

Jensen had heard enough. His cheeks were painted bright red as he attempted to ease his arm out of Jared’s grasp. “Good night, Jared. Go to sleep.”

“I want a kiss. A goodnight kiss.” Jared looked mutinous and stubborn. His bottom lip pushed out and trembled.

It was Jensen’s turn to sigh now. He knew from his dealings with his older brother and father that the easiest way to mollify a drunk was to go along with them. “If I give you a kiss, will you go to sleep?”

Jared nodded and puckered up his lips. Jensen leaned in and brushed his lips over Jared’s. He was surprised at the punch of desire that surged through his body. When he drew back, Jared was wearing a silly grin. He snuggled down into the covers and started snoring softly.

Jensen took a long time to get to sleep. He woke, dry mouthed, out of a nightmare and sat by the fireplace. The fire had been banked by the servants and Jensen shivered slightly in the chair before drawing the blanket off his bed. Jared snored loudly, lying flat on his back with his arms spread wide across the mattress. The sheets had slid down and Jensen found himself watching the rise and fall of Jared’s chest. It surprised him how tanned Jared was.

He felt guilty as he let his eyes wander. He’d turned away from Jared. He’d flinched when Jared had placed a hand on his shoulder to lean over and help with a difficult piece of French. Jared had apologised and made sure never to touch Jensen accidently again. Yet Jensen had given in and kissed Jared when he had asked. And Jensen knew he had enjoyed it. In some ways he wanted Jared to kiss him again. He watched as Jared rolled onto his side, thankfully tugging the covers up to cover more of his skin. He muttered something unintelligible in his sleep.

The nightmare that still lingered at the fringes of his consciousness reminded him that it would never be that simple. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Jared wrapped his arms around his pillow tightly. Jensen knew that the bone deep chill that permeated his body wouldn’t disperse if he poked the fire and threw on some more coal. It wouldn’t matter if he was wrapped in a dozen eiderdown quilts. Jared snuffled into his pillow once more. Jensen wondered if he slid into Jared’s bed and let Jared hold him as tightly as he was holding that pillow whether the cold would leave his bones.

Part of him, quite a large part of him, was convinced that it probably would. However he could not make himself move. He sat beside the cooling fire for the rest of the night.

 

Jared wasn’t up for much the next day, so Jensen left him in bed as he headed off to seek out some breakfast. He was spotted looking lost by one of the parlour maids and led to a sunny room that he vaguely remembered as being near the library. The room was filled with pot plants still blooming brightly despite the season and wicker furniture. There were a few of Jeff’s friends lying in the pale winter sunshine. One of the girls languidly waved in his direction. Jensen fixed himself a plate of bread and honey and accepted a cup of coffee from one of the maids. He ate quickly, eyes fixed on the scenery outside. Another of Jeff’s friends stumbled in and drank some of the coffee. He sent a quick greeting in Jensen’s direction as he headed out again.

Jensen soon moved to the library. He was quite right in thinking that none of Jeff’s friends would be interested in visiting this room. A roaring fire kept the room warm and Jensen was soon ensconced in a comfortable leather armchair and lost in the adventures of Henchard and Casterbridge. He had quite lost track of time and was quite surprised by one of the maids pushing the door open and bringing in a tray.

“Mrs Gilbert’s compliments, sir. She thought you might take tea here.” The maid laid the tray on the table in front of the fire. “Master Jared still hasn’t woke up.”

Jensen shrugged. “It’s his vacation.”

The maid giggled. “You mean holiday?” Jensen blushed. He still held on to many of his American sayings despite the rather cruel teasing. He supposed it was his way of rebelling. The maid blushed back at him and scurried out. Jensen grabbed a cup from the tray, scoffed one of the rather lovely scones, and went back to his book.

Jared came past around a half hour later, still bleary eyed and wobbling. He grabbed at one of the scones and spilled crumbs down his front. Jensen laughed at him and sent him back to bed. Jensen was aware of there being more noise out in the main house but he was quite happy. Another maid showed up to clear away the tea tray and brought him back some sandwiches. Jensen thought he could get quite used to being spoiled like this.

He had reached the point where Farfrae leaves Henchard’s employ when his back complained. Jensen stood up and started moving around the room, stretching his muscles. He was looking out of the window, wondering if the weather was warm enough for a walk when he heard the door open behind him. It was one of Jeff’s friends. Jensen smiled politely and turned back to the window. Maybe he should just go check on Jared instead. The clouds on the horizon looked suspiciously like rainclouds.

Jeff’s friend surprised him by coming up behind him. “Looks like rain,” he commented. Jensen nodded but didn’t say anything. “I noticed you at dinner last night.”

Jensen started shifting away. He didn’t feel comfortable here. He made some excuse about seeing to Jared and headed towards the door. Jeff’s friend let him almost reach it before moving closer to Jensen and blocking his exit. “We could talk,” he said, grabbing on to Jensen’s arm.

Jensen felt the first stirrings of panic. There was a look in Jeff’s friend’s eyes that he remembered. The look that Davies had fixed him with. Jensen started to struggle, pulling at the man’s hand. The man merely tightened his grip, using it to push Jensen up against the nearest bookshelves. The uneven rows rubbed against his back. He could smell wine and brandy on the man’s breath as he came forward, his mouth seeking Jensen’s. Jensen turned his head, only for the man to mouth at his cheek, his jaw.

Jensen started to struggle more seriously. He pushed at the man’s chest, hands curling into sharp fists. He lifted his leg to knee Jeff’s friend in the crotch but all of his attempts to fight back were countered by the man. He called out in panic, only for the man to force his hand over Jensen’s mouth. He tried to bite at the palm. The man used his other hand to fumble his trousers open.

Jensen wriggled harder at that, flailing from side to side. He was aware of someone else yelling before the man was suddenly jerked backwards. Jared was there, pulling his fist back for it to land satisfyingly in the man’s face. There was a bright spurt of blood. Jeff’s friend fell to his knees and Jensen came forward to use the opportunity to kick him in a most ungentlemanly manner.

Jared looked at him, breathing heavily. “Are you hurt?”

Jensen shook his head. Then he was wrapped up in his friend’s arms. Jared muttered something into his hair but Jensen couldn’t hear it. He was lost in the sensation of being in Jared’s arms. It was as warm and comforting as he’d imagined. Eventually Jared pulled back. Jensen grabbed his book and followed him out of the room, leaving Jeff’s friend writhing on the floor. Jared led him back to the sanctuary of his own room.

Jared paced angrily while Jensen sorted his clothing, changing his torn shirt. Jared kept starting conversations and cutting himself off. Jensen noticed that Jared’s hands were bleeding. He sighed and went over to the old fashioned basin and jug that sat on Jared’s dresser. There was still some water in the bottom of it, but Jensen didn’t know how long it had been there. He filled the jug in the bathroom at the end of the corridor.

When he returned, Jared was slumped in the seat beside the fire that Jensen had spent most of the last night in. Jensen brought the bowl over and carefully tipped some of the water into it. Jared watched him silently. Jensen grabbed his torn shirt – there was no way it would ever look acceptable again and tore off a strip of cloth. He dipped it in the bowl and knelt on the floor at Jared’s feet. He proceeded to clean the wounds slowly and methodically. Jared hissed when Jensen went over a split knuckle but didn’t jerk his hand away.

The water had turned a pale pink colour by the time Jensen was finished. Jared had calmed down too, tension no longer marked in every line of his body. “Jensen?” he asked, quietly.

Jensen knew he was asking if he was all right, if he was hurt. “It’s fine, Jared.”

Jared shook his head. “No. It most certainly is not.” Jared ran his hands through his hair and then brought them back to his lap, examining his knuckles. “I couldn’t keep you safe,” he admitted, in a quiet voice.

Jensen wondered why he suddenly felt like laughing. “Jared. That’s not your role in life. I have to learn how to keep myself safe.” He sat back on his heels, the warmth of the fire a little uncomfortable along one side of his body. Jared looked like he might apologise again. “I need to learn,” he repeated.

“What if I’d rather you didn’t learn? What if you just stayed the same as you are now?” Jared seemed to be intent on meeting Jensen’s eyes. Jensen let him.

“I fought back,” Jensen told him. “This time. I fought back.” In his heart, Jensen knew that no matter what had happened he had struggled and fought for himself. “I was too scared to fight back before.”

Jared looked confused. “You didn’t fight Davies and the others?”

Jensen shook his head, shame colouring his cheeks. “I let them. I thought I had to. But not anymore. I can fight back. I just need you to help, now and again.”

“You could have asked for help with them. I would have done anything for you. I’d still do anything for you,” Jared admitted. He still looked tense, as if expecting Jensen to scream or cry or hit out.

Jensen felt oddly calm. “I know you would. That’s what friends do for each other.”

Jared looked like he was going to say something more, admit something that Jensen knew to be true. But his training held true. Real men do not discuss their feelings or admit things like that to other men. This conversation had skirted the uncomfortable truth once too often for Jensen’s peace of mind. He changed the subject. “It looks like I’ll be moved into the Sixth after the holidays. Won’t that be jolly.”

Jared nodded. “There’s not a spare study though. Do you want to share mine?” He sat back in his chair and let Jensen wind some clean cloth around his knuckles. Jensen would need to ask Mrs Gilbert for some proper bandages later but this was good enough for now. It felt good to be looking after other people. It felt good to be looking after Jared for a change.

 

The rest of the holiday passed peacefully. Jensen and Jared spent the time avoiding the others, spending the time in long walks around the grounds or lounging in front of the library fire. They ate in there most days, or sometimes in the kitchen. Jared did not seem particularly bothered about not spending time with his brother. He shrugged off Jensen’s suggestion that perhaps he should make more of an effort. Apparently brotherly bonding was not something Jared or Jeff were interested in. The return to school was also anti-climactic. Davies had left quietly, heading off to Sandhurst apparently.

Jensen was surprised when Jared flicked an envelope at him one morning over breakfast. Mail was usually passed around then. Jensen was always astonished when he did receive letters from his sister and from his father. They weren’t frequent enough that Jensen listened for his name with any particular care. Jared was always receiving letters.

Jensen rescued the envelope from being dunked in his tea. It was blank on the outside. Jared had another envelope just like it in his hand, as well as the letter he had received. The other hand was filled with a jam laden piece of bread. Jensen grinned as Jared licked a piece of jam threatening to drop off into his mouth before cramming in more than a mouthful. He opened the envelope carefully. It was a photograph of the two of them. Jensen remembered Jared’s brother’s friend having that new camera at Christmas. A warm feeling in his belly that had nothing to do with his breakfast reassured him. He tucked the photograph carefully into his pocket.

“It was nice of Jeff to send me a picture,” Jensen said to Jared as they headed off to wash up before morning prep.

“I got one too. I think it’s his way of apologising for ignoring me over Christmas.” Jared’s mouth tightened into a line briefly.

Jensen patted him on the shoulder. “Still good of him.”

Jensen eased into the work of the Sixth Form. He liked the way the masters relaxed as much as they ever could, allowing slightly more discussion back and forth. Jensen felt that a few of the masters could do with looking at books published since 1850, but he enjoyed challenging their ideas. It felt a little like fighting back.

Jensen was not the only pupil from the Upper Fifth promoted to the Sixth, so Jared’s prediction of not enough studies remained accurate. It was quite all right, Jensen mused, one evening in the middle of February. Snow had blanketed the grounds and buildings of the school. Jensen had appreciated it from the safety of indoors but the younger boys seemed delighted with the change in the weather, spending hours outside making snow men and throwing snowballs at each other. Jared had made a point of trying to involve Jensen in his own attack on the boys of the Fourth, but Jensen had refused to be drawn into battle.

Instead, Jensen had laid and lit the fire in his and Jared’s study, making sure the kettle was filled and that bread was cut ready for toast. Jensen might still have to bunk down in the dorms but he spent most of his free time here now and knew his way around. Jared was astonishingly grateful when he stumbled into the room, soaked through. Jensen still turned his head as Jared drew off his clothes before clambering into his pyjamas and dressing gown. Something in him still prevented him from returning to their previous intimacy. His nightmares had receded admittedly, replaced by dreams half recalled where Jared played a somewhat prominent role.

“I received a letter today, from my father,” Jared told him as Jensen handed over a mug of tea.

Jensen nodded. He’d seen Jared pocket the letter at breakfast. He’d received a letter from his sister, from Naples. Apparently the weather was quite mild there. There was obviously something significant in Jared broaching the subject.

“He was talking about University. I was wondering...” Jared took a sip of his tea. “What are your plans?”

“My plans?” Jensen hadn’t really thought about it. He was expecting to return home or to New York and decide on a course of action then. “I don’t know.”

Jared drank more of his tea, eyes steady on Jensen. “My father wants me to apply to his old college, at Cambridge.” Jensen nodded, not quite sure where Jared was taking this conversation. Jared and he were so familiar with each other now that this was an unusual state of affairs. Jensen waited. Jared would tell him in his own way and time. “I’m not so sure.”

“Thinking about another college? Another university?” Jensen prompted gently.

“I was thinking about American universities, actually.” Jared took another sip. Jensen wriggled in his seat, thinking this over. “It was just an idea.”

Jensen smiled. “It’s a good idea. I like it.” Jensen knew what he meant was I would love you to come to college with me, to study with me. But Jared gulped down the rest of his tea and pulled his books towards him.

“I feel Catullus and that sodding sparrow calling,” Jared said. His eyes flicked to Jensen as he lowered his head to concentrate. Jensen could feel the smile on his face broaden. If they were together, away from this place where unpleasant memories threatened to overwhelm him, maybe, just maybe, they could perhaps start moving towards something closer than friendship. Jensen found his eyes fixed on Jared’s profile. His hand itched with the urge to lean forward and brush the hair out of Jared’s eyes.

 

When his classmates were concentrating on examinations for businesses and universities, Jensen found himself having little company in some of his classes. The masters assigned more and more independent work, letting Jensen work through the exercise books on his own. Jensen didn’t mind it, preferring it in some ways. It meant leaving classes early sometimes, especially as the school year wound down. Jensen knew that he only had weeks left and he sometimes felt that the urge to return home was almost tangible.

Perhaps he might miss some things about Heckleton, he thought, as he sped his steps along the corridor to the study. He definitely did enjoy the challenge of the lessons. Jensen pushed the door open without thinking about it. He dropped the book in his hand in shock. Jared was in the study, a cane in his hand. There was a boy in front of him, hands clutching the desk he and Jared shared. The boy was trembling.

Jensen stumbled backwards out of the room. How could Jared, his Jared, do that? Jensen fled to his dormitory, forgoing supper in favour of hiding in his room.

Jared came to see him before the other boys had returned. They were probably out making the most of the longer evenings. They were all sports mad and used the warmer time of year to practise endlessly. Jensen was familiar enough with the rules by now that he could nod appropriately when they included him in their excitement. He had laughed about that with Jared. There was nothing humorous in either of their expressions now.

“Jensen. You missed dinner.” Jared hovered uncertainly in the doorway. Jensen laid his book down and swung his legs around to sit facing Jared. He didn’t invite him in. “I didn’t want you to see that. It’s one of my duties, as Head Boy. The masters sometimes send boys to me.”

“I find it hard to believe that the masters are so soft-hearted as to not punish the boy themselves.” Jensen couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

Jared’s tone was pleading when he replied. “But you understand that I have to maintain discipline. It’s my duty. You know I hate it.”

Jensen walked over to the doorway. He was shaking a little, unsure whether it was in anger or in fear. “I hate that you think it’s your duty to hurt them, Jared.” He closed the door in Jared’s face and returned to his bed. He reread the same page of his book a dozen times before he gave up and closed it. All he could see was the grim look of Jared’s face and his hand clutched around the cane. A chill that had seeped slowly from his bones returned full force.

 

The end of term meant another train journey. Jensen packed his own bags, eager to leave Heckleton forever. His mother had informed him in no uncertain terms that they would be returning to New York. Apparently his maternal grandfather was ill and his mother was finally eager to return home. Jensen still found it difficult to think of that city as home. Despite his mother’s hankerings for the town, his home was Texas and he found himself wishing himself back in its dry warmth. The rain battering the window seemed yet another reminder of how different life was here. This was summer. Every time Jensen thought he had become accustomed to this insane country... He pulled himself out of his musings to fold away another piece of clothing.

At the bottom of his near empty drawer lay the envelope containing the photograph Jared had given him. Jensen stole a look around the room to check his fellow dormitory detainees were off on their own pursuits before slipping it out. Despite all that had happened at Christmas, the photograph reminded Jensen of why he was only half eager to get out of this dreadful place. Jared and he stood stiffly, side by side. There was little of Jared’s puppy dog like enthusiasm nor his burning intensity but Jensen found his fingers sliding against the stiff cardboard before putting the image away and burying it inside a Dickens novel he had been given by one of the masters. He shouldn’t think of Jared like that anymore.

His packing done, Jensen lay back on the neatly made bed and contemplated the cracked ceiling, listening to the rain splash against the window. The others had wild plans that involved fishing and cricket, but Jensen knew that those would be curtailed. He presumed they were all down in the common room cursing the weather. He didn’t care. They had one more week at school before they were free for the summer. Jensen had the dubious pleasure of meeting his mother and sister in London tomorrow.

The door creaked open and he turned his head to see who had come to check on him. It wasn’t one of the younger boys whose names he continued to mix up – Braithwaite and Thwaites or something. It was Jared. They hadn’t spoken since he’d thrown those cruel words at him a week before and Jensen had made sure to avoid Jared at all opportunities. There was no escape now. He let his head fall back onto the pillow and resumed his perusal of the ceiling.

“Kripke asked if I wanted to accompany you to London, tomorrow. I’m to go to Cambridge on Monday.” Jared’s voice was hesitant and gentle as he crossed the floor. “I told him I would ask you.”

“Cambridge?” Jensen tried to sound disinterested but he knew he failed.

Jared settled himself carefully by Jensen’s feet on the narrow bed. “They might have a place for me after all.”

Jensen looked sharply at him. “No more talk of American universities, then.”

“You have to understand... My family...” Jared looked stricken.

Jensen took pity on him. “I wrote to my parents to ask if I could stay. Before... I wrote and was told that I would be returning to America if I wanted a college education.” Jared’s eyes were fixed on his. There was a plea there. Jensen spoke quickly. “Can we stop fighting? I’m leaving and I do not want to spend the rest of my life regretting that I did not say goodbye to the only friend I had in this miserable country.” The apology slipped out more easily than Jensen had anticipated.

“It was my fault. I was... I understand why you said what you did.” Jared took a long shuddering breath. “I am angry that you are leaving though. The thought of never seeing you again.” Jared walked his hand closer to Jensen’s on the bed. He stroked his hand with his fingertips. “I want to stay your friend. I wanted to be more than that, if you could have let me.”

Jensen’s heart raced, though whether at the soft touch or at the words. “I wish I could have too, sometimes.” And he knew that in his heart this was true. He could see himself giving himself to Jared. “Maybe you could kiss me. One last time.”

Jared looked terrified and elated at the same time. He looked at the door, then leaned over and brushed his lips over Jensen’s. It was like a butterfly drifting across his mouth. Jared sat back up and Jensen followed him, kneeling beside him on the bed. Jared watched him carefully as Jensen put one hand on his cheek to hold him in place as he licked his lips and dropped his mouth towards his. Jensen was tentative at first, but when Jared pressed back harder, Jensen became more confident and opened his mouth. His eyes drifted shut when Jared’s hand, oddly soft despite the amount of time it spent wrapped around a cricket bat cupped the back of his neck.

Jensen could not tell you how long the entire world narrowed to the heat of Jared’s body and the feel of their lips together. A sudden clatter of feet outside reminded them that there were other people who would probably not understand why Jensen had twisted to near sit in Jared’s lap. He pulled back and rearranged himself on the bed, lying back comfortably.

Jensen looked up at Jared, who seemed unable to take his eyes off Jensen. Jared’s eyes were hot and dark. Jensen tried to lighten the mood. “Guess we’re going to London tomorrow.”

 

The train was busy as they climbed aboard, but the guard got them settled in a compartment with only three other passengers. The rain from the previous day was long gone and the sun flooded the compartment, making Jensen warm and sleepy. He clung onto consciousness, aware of Jared’s leg pressed against his but soon found himself drifting off, the chug of the engine a mechanical lullaby.

He jolted awake when Jared moved to close the blinds on the compartment door. The other passengers had alighted and they were now alone. Jensen found his palms becoming clammy as Jared made his way back to his seat.

“I don’t know how long we’ve got, but I wanted to do this one more time before you left.” And with that, Jared was pressing their mouths together urgently. Jensen responded, his arms wrapping around Jared’s back and his hands running up and down the back of his ridiculous school blazer. Jared was the one who pulled away too soon.

Jensen ran his tongue over his swollen lips and saw Jared’s eyes catch on them. He started to move forward again, but Jared’s hand on his chest stopped him. “We can’t. We might be caught.”

Jensen swallowed his disappointment and apologised, his voice lower and deeper than he remembered it. Jared’s face twisted into a bittersweet smile but before he could say anything the door opened and a man with a briefcase came in. He sat opposite Jensen and opened his newspaper. Jensen stood up to retrieve his book from his suitcase and settled beside Jared once more. He found the envelope containing the picture and nudged Jared to get his attention.

Jared turned the envelope over in his long fingers before sliding the picture out. He dug in his pocket as Jensen watched, eventually pulling out a pen. Holding the cap between his teeth, Jared turned the picture over and carefully wrote on the back. He was at the wrong angle for Jensen to see what he had written. Satisfied, Jared replaced the pen in his pocket, screwing the cap on tight. He handed the envelope back to Jensen who looked at it curiously and started to open it.

Jared put his hand over his. “Later. Look at it later. When you are on the boat home.”

 

The train pulled into Paddington and, although Jensen was glad to leave the hot, stuffy compartment, he felt that by stepping onto the platform he was returning to his old life. Jared watched him in amusement as he slowly got to his feet and lifted his suitcase down carefully. Jared had gathered his luggage and opened the door politely for the other passenger. He stood waiting for Jensen. Jensen took his time sliding his book back in and closing the case before straightening his shoulders and nodding resolutely.

Jared followed him out onto the platform. They stood there awkwardly for a moment, the noise and crowd overwhelming after the relative calm of school. A voice rose above the cacophony, yelling Jensen’s name. He turned to see his mother making her way down the platform towards him. He stood awkwardly, arms hanging by his side as she embraced him firmly and then stood back to look him over. Her mouth tightened in a moue of distaste as he considered what sleeping on a train must have done to his appearance. “Hello, Mama.”

She brightened at that. “Jensen, darling. We’ve missed you.” She stood aside and Jensen’s sister came forward, face flushing as she tentatively encircled him with her arms. “And this is...?”

Jared smiled his widest smile. “You must remember me writing to you about Jared. He welcomed me into his house at Christmas.” Jensen smiled up at him as he offered his hand to Jensen’s mother, murmuring something polite about being pleased to meet her.

They walked together towards the cabs waiting at the entrance to the station, a porter following with Jensen’s trunk. Jared handed Jensen’s mother into the seat as the luggage was loaded. Jensen helped his sister in and then turned to Jared. “I’ll write to you.”

Jared looked at him for a long moment and his arms twitched. Jensen knew Jared wanted to wrap his arms around him and he half-hoped he would. Instead, desperate for one last touch, Jensen held out his hand. Jared seized it and shook it, holding it tightly. The driver coughed impatiently and Jensen stepped away, seating himself beside the driver. He waved as they pulled away. Jared stood, watching unmoving, until Jensen could see him no more.

 

Jensen opened the envelope the minute his mother let him escape to his hotel room. They would travel on to Southampton tomorrow and be in New York less than a week later. Jensen flung himself on the bed holding the envelope tight. An entire ocean would separate him from Jared. He opened the envelope, turning the picture over the moment he had it free.

Jared had simply written “To Jensen. Love Jared.”

 

 

Part Two - April 1917

The hospital was crowded and busy and Jensen found himself sleeping in the back of the storeroom more often than making his way back to his lonely billet. The nurses had caught on to the bedroll stashed under the shelves but made no efforts to move it or him, even whispering softly and trying not to switch on any lights if they needed something while he was sleeping. One day a field cot appeared and never left. It meant that he was there to help amputate limbs when the gangrene spread too quickly and to hold hands when head injuries meant delirium and confusion before death.

He had never pictured this during his training. He had imagined a small town practice delivering babies and setting young arms broken by falls from trees. Not a form of surgery closer to butchery. He had heard that the generals had tried to keep separate hospitals for each of the nationalities fighting and some of the soldiers complained about being on wards with Negroes and Frenchies. Jensen thought that if they were well enough to be complaining, they were well enough to be moved. He never admitted why those who complained loudest were moved first rather than the object of their complaints. The senior surgeon, Morgan, was always too busy to pay any heed to the complaints.

It had been Morgan who complained loudest when he found out about Jensen’s alternative sleeping arrangements. “You need to get out of here, son. Get out and get away from this war for as long as you can.”

Jensen hadn’t felt up to explaining that the patients under his care had no such luxury, but he agreed to accompany the nurses on a night out to one of the Paris restaurants they wanted to visit. The local estaminet was good enough for soldiers but not for the nurses of the American hospital. Jensen did not believe his presence was strictly necessary. The nurses were more than capable of taking care of themselves – the muscles they used cleaning the wards and moving patients showed the steel at the core of those so-called angels. He also thought that quite a few of the nurses wanted no chaperone to a place where they knew there would be soldiers on leave. He’d managed to dissuade a few of the more persistent nurses from pursing their desired diversion with him. His reluctance to make the twenty mile journey to Paris with women he would rather not know was dismissed by Morgan who told him bluntly to just go.

The nurses had chosen a place known to be popular with British officers. Jensen bit his tongue as they commented on the gentlemanly nature of such men. He doubted his experience of such gentlemen at school would be welcome. Their romantic delusions were one more difference between him and them, another reason for the lack of any connection to them. Life was easier that way. No connections, no one to hurt you.

The restaurant was dark and smoky, stereotypical checked tablecloths and bitter red wine. Candles sat in old lamps on the tables. Jensen reckoned it was supposed to add an air of mystery and superstition to the place, but he also thought that it could have been a cunning plan to hide the dirt. It was relatively early but night had already closed in, a gloomy night promising rain come morning. The place was packed but a group of soldiers stumbled out into the darkness as they entered, pushing Jensen to one side. Just as pleasant as his memories painted the typical Englishman then. He looked closely at them, full of bravado and youthful swagger. Any of them would have been at home in the halls of Heckleton. One of the quieter, more sober chaps at the rear of the group looked at him closely before shaking his head and following the others out. Jensen vaguely recognised him. Someone he had treated, perhaps, or even someone he’d met at school.

He followed the girls to the vacated table, laughing at his fancy. The coincidence of meeting anyone he’d attended school with must be miniscule. He took the glass that Nurse Harris held out to him and polished it discreetly with his sleeve before allowing her to fill it with the red wine. He spent a long moment contemplating the fact that the vineyards in the south of France would still be bringing in the harvest and the farmers ploughing their fields while he sewed up their sons and brothers to send them back to have their bodies ground into the earth. Jensen shook away the morbid thoughts and tried to listen to one of the nurses talking about her family back home.

The door opened again, a blast of cooler air sweeping around their ankles. A shout from the far corner that Jensen ignored and then a reply he could not. He felt the muscles in his spine tighten, holding firmly against the urge to jump up and run to the sound of that familiar voice. He must be imagining it. The wine must be stronger than he thought. Jensen fixed his eyes on the table in front of him.

There was a scuffle as the officers at the table behind him took to their feet, some of them tipping their caps in the direction of the nurses before leaving. Jensen was aware out of the corner of his eye of a tall figure slumping into a seat behind him. He could not turn round even if he wanted to now. The group behind him were talking amongst themselves, the volume of their voices suggesting that they had spent most of the day drinking already, and he tried desperately not to listen in but found all his attention was focused on listening for that voice again.

He became aware that the group of nurses had obviously asked him a question. “Sorry?”

“Dr Ackles? Are you all right?” He became aware of the figure turning to look more closely at their table and felt a red flush creep up the back of his neck. Nurse Harris – Danny she wanted to be called – looked closer at him. “Jensen?”

He brought his head up, pasting a smile he knew to be false on his face. “Yes. I’m fine. It’s just the noise. And the heat.” He swallowed what was left in the glass and held it out for more. Someone started playing a piano, loudly and clumsily. The harsh jolting notes scraped across his nerves. A group of whores, obviously tired of plying their trade at the bar, came across to try their luck with this new group. One of them flung herself in his lap.

Jensen was desperately trying to work out how to get her off when she asked, “Buy a girl a drink, Monsieur?” The leering wink left little to the imagination: a drink was only the first of the offers she would give him.

“Madame, I’m sorry. Perhaps another soldier...” He tried for polite but knew she would read it as cold and unfeeling. He was glad the whores had picked up enough English to make the need to stumble out his refusal in his schoolboy French unnecessary.

Her face hardened. “Just trying to make my living. And you a rich Americain.” Jensen was even more desperate for her to leave him alone now.

A heavy, large hand landed on her shoulder. “He’s not interested, Camille. I do know Lieutenant Jenkins might be more up your alley tonight, if you know what I mean.”

The whore looked up and fluttered her eyelashes in a way Jensen supposed she thought coquettish. “Monsieur Captain. We have missed you.”

“I’ve been off entertaining the Germans.” The last was said in a tone devoid of feeling. The hand on the shoulder became a hand under the elbow and the girl was levered out of his lap and shoved none too gently in the direction of the other men. Jensen finally looked up.

The eyes were the same. Hazel or green or grey, it was hard to tell in the shifting flickering lights of the cafe. His hair had been cut back, no unruly waves but a short, harsh, brutal cut. He was no longer a boy, body filled out in the way his lankiness had always promised. His skin might have been tanned, but Jensen wasn’t sure if it was the sun or the harsh weather that had roughened the skin he remembered as being soft and supple. A day’s beard growth decorated his chin, dark and harsh. It made him look dangerous.

“Hello, Jared.” Jensen felt his voice hitch as he spoke the name that had been burning inside him since they had parted at the train station. Jensen coughed to ease the tightness. “Or... is it Captain Padalecki, now?”

Nurse Harris had obviously become aware of something happening. She turned from the cozy close-knit group to see what Jensen was doing now. “Are you a friend of Dr Ackles? Join us?”

“I don’t know. Am I your friend, Jensen?” Jared’s voice was rough and low, the boyish lilt long gone. Jensen would still know that voice anywhere.

It took a long moment for the question to sink in. Jensen realised he was too busy drinking in the presence of the boy – the man – he had been missing for five long years. He surged to his feet and took a step towards Jared, arms outstretched. He hesitated for a space of time that felt like a year before Jared stepped forward, opening his arms. Jensen stepped into the embrace.

He probably held tight for too long. “It’s been ages,” he told the very interested Nurse Harris, her intelligent eyes shrewdly looking between them. “We were friends at school.” Jensen didn’t let go entirely. He kept one hand placed gently on the small of Jared’s back. It was crowded and dark enough for the touch to look innocent. He could feel Jared trembling.

He looked closely at Jared again. His eyes were surrounded by the bruised smudges of exhaustion and he smelled of old sweat and alcohol. “I think I should get you back home.”

Jared looked at him. “I can’t go home, Jensen. It’s too far away. I want to go home.” The last was whispered softly and Jared looked as young as he had been when Jensen first met him.

“Where are you staying, then?” Jensen asked. Jared was starting to lean on him. Heavily.

Jared slurred the name of a local hotel, a hotel not exactly known for long term occupancy. Jensen was shocked. “Are you sure?”

“I’m only in Paris for two nights. Then it’s back up to the line. Wipers, I reckon.” Jared’s voice lost its emotion again and the last was delivered in a monotone.

He turned to Nurse Harris and smiled his goodbye. A few of Jared’s company had attached themselves to the table and Jensen knew the girls were more than capable of taking care of themselves. He was half leading, half carrying Jared out when their progress was impeded by another man in a brown uniform. Jensen looked up. It was a very young soldier, uniform pristine and so new it still had its original creases.

“Where are you taking the Captain?” The boy swallowed nervously but stood his ground.

Jensen looked him up and down. He hid a smile at the over protectiveness. “His virtue is safe, if that’s what you’re asking. I am merely returning Captain Padalecki to his rooms.” The boy relaxed but didn’t move until one of the other lieutenants called him over. “I’ll take good care of him. I’m a doctor.”

“But you’re an American.” The words were out before the boy even seemed to realise he had spoken.

“I may be, but I was educated at Heckleton.” The boy looked shocked but held open the door for Jensen to manoeuvre Jared through it.

 

Jared was barely conscious by the time Jensen and he arrived at his hotel. The concierge fumbled a key from behind the desk and gave it to Jensen with the merest suggestion of a wink. This hotel would have to be open-minded if the rumours of comings and goings were anything like true. Jensen let the old elevator carry him and Jared up to the third floor, rather than attempting the steep steps. There were noises he’d rather not think about coming from behind some of the doors but the hallway was thankfully empty. He found the room and opened it.

Jared seemed to revive as they got into the room. He pushed Jensen up against the door as it closed behind them. The room was dark but Jensen could make out a rumbled bed and a broken lamp. His view was completely blocked by Jared leaning against him and tilting his mouth up for a kiss.

Jared tasted of stale cigarette smoke and bitter sour wine. Jensen opened his mouth to let the demanding tongue in, feeling the curve of Jared’s mouth widen to swallow him down whole. Jared’s hands were pulling at his belt, tugging at his shirt and sliding along his back, pulling their bodies together. Jensen was startled to realise he was doing the same, mirroring Jared’s desperate hands, mouth widening till his jaw ached. Jensen gasped when he felt Jared’s hard length press against his thigh.

Jensen pushed Jared’s uniform jacket from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His own jacket had come off somewhere along the way. He pulled the shirt loose from Jared’s pants, slipping the suspenders off his shoulders. Jared pressed hard against him again and he realised he didn’t want to wait any longer. He thrust Jared back, drawing in deep draughts of oxygen to try and restore some equilibrium. It didn’t last. His lips were hungry, demanding, possessive against Jared’s mouth in an instant. He walked them back to the bed, letting Jared fall down on it.

Somewhere, five years again and a thousand miles away, he could see his childhood self watching in disbelief as the man he had become bent over the man he desired, the man he wanted and maybe even the man he loved and pulled his cock free from his pants. He could almost hear the shocked gasp as he knelt to draw it into his mouth. Jared flung his head back on the pillow, letting out a loud groan and clutching the dirty sheets feverishly in his hands. Jensen might not have done this many times before but there seemed to be nothing he could do wrong as he swallowed as much of Jared as he could, using his hand to twist and caress the rest. Before long, Jared was tugging at Jensen’s head and Jensen watched, some part of him a dispassionate observer, as Jared brought his hand to cover Jensen’s and squeeze tightly to cause him to spill over their joined hands.

Jensen was aware he was rutting against the sheets himself and when Jared pulled him to his mouth to share a kiss, the brush of his thigh had Jensen spilling his own seed. He felt his heart rate slow as he lay beside Jared, mouths barely touching, sharing the same air, hands entwined.

They didn’t talk then. Jared drifted off to sleep, dark lashes fluttering against his cheek. Jensen watched him until he felt his own eyes drift shut, wine and satisfaction making him drowsy. He wondered idly what the nurses would say but decided he could always say he was catching up with an old school friend, helping him out. In many ways that statement would not be a lie.

Jensen woke with a sudden awareness that he could not breathe. Jared lay across his chest, pressing down tightly. Jared was mumbling and Jensen realised he was gripped by a nightmare. He shook Jared, trying to shift him to one side. Jared had bulked up, youthful leanness turning to solid muscle. “Jared,” Jensen said, then louder, “Jared. Wake up!”

Jared started upright, the sheets exposing him and Jensen on the bed. He looked around wildly, not seeming to know where he was.

“Jared?” Jensen did not know how to reassure him. It felt false to tell him he was safe here. Jensen had no way of knowing that.

Jared looked down at him. “Jensen?” His voice was strained, as if he could not quite believe what he was saying. He reached out a hand to touch Jensen but hesitated shy of his skin.

Jensen had no such qualms. He reached up and pressed Jared’s hand down the final inch. “It’s me. You met me in the cafe.”

Jared flopped back to the bed, his eyes not leaving Jensen’s and his hand still firmly clasped to Jensen’s chest. “I dream so many things. I can’t keep it all straight. I remember now.” Jared’s eyes wandered down Jensen’s body. There was no disgust but neither was there any lust. There was puzzlement. “Why are you naked?”

Jensen didn’t want to explain. He leaned closer to Jared. Something told him that there was little chance of them meeting again. “Why do you think?” Jensen’s voice was low, soft and suggestive.

Jared’s focus on Jensen intensified. “Are you sure?” The fingertips trapped under Jensen’s hand started to stoke the area of skin they could touch. Jensen nodded and moved towards Jared. He stopped his lips an inch away from Jared’s mouth and waited. Jared leaned forward to close the gap and Jensen sunk into his mouth. This time he was determined to give Jared all that he could. He opened his mouth as wide as it could go and swallowed all the moans of pleasure Jared made.

 

They talked later. Three years might have passed since they last exchanged letters but Jared explained why he’d stopped writing when the war broke out. Jensen admitted that he’d thought about leaving America to join up with the British forces but had been persuaded that he’d do more good continuing his studies as a doctor. Jared did not want to talk about life on the front line, asking instead after Jensen’s family, university, the hospital. Jensen was happy to talk. He spent so much time pretending to be stoic, experienced, mature – everything a doctor, the man holding your life in his hands, should be. Jensen knew himself to be terrified most of the time. Jared looked to be no different.

There was a banging at the door. A voice shouted, in an English accent, “Enough fun time. We have to report back in now, Padalecki.”

“Ten minutes,” Jared roared back. He turned to look at Jensen and laughed without humour. “They think I need to tup my whore one more time. They expect me to. It’s the man I’ve become.” Jensen heard that flat empty tone creep back into Jared’s voice.

Jensen leaned down to kiss Jared where he lay back on the pillows. “I don’t know how I feel about being your whore. The tupping, on the other hand...” Jensen let his voice trail off suggestively and waggled his eyebrows.

Jared looked at him in shock. “Again?”

Jensen laughed at him and was gratified to see Jared smiling back. “I’m a little sore,” he admitted, ruefully. “But, Jared, I’ve been waiting five years for you.”

That wiped the smile off Jared’s face. He fell out of the bed and staggered around the room reassembling his clothing. “I should go.”

Jensen thought again about the sudden change in Jared’s demeanour. He put his hand over his face and groaned. “I didn’t mean it like that. I haven’t... you weren’t...” Jared put sat on the edge of the bed to put his socks on. He still refused to meet Jensen’s eyes. Jensen scrabbled around in the sheets, feeling very exposed all of a sudden. “Will you write to me?” Jensen thought his voice sounded lost.

Jared looked at him then. “Jensen, do you really want...?”

Jensen nodded, once, solemnly. Jared scrabbled in his jacket pocket and drew out a notebook and a stub of pencil. He handed it to Jensen who scribbled his address at the hospital rather than his billet into the book. Mail would have more chance of reaching him there. Jared took the notebook back carefully, fingers lingering to touch Jensen’s hand.

“Let me know the next time you have leave,” Jensen said, smiling. “Just as friends, if you want.” The easy diffidence of his school days returned. Hide everything you feel at all costs.

Jared finished tying his laces and grabbed the duffel that had not been opened from beside the door. He hesitated at the door before turning and leaning across the bed once more. He captured Jensen’s chin in his hand and drew him into a long, lingering kiss. “Maybe as more than friends.”

Jensen didn’t stay much longer. He dressed quickly and slipped down the stairs. Back at the hospital, Nurse Harris tried to discuss the evening – Jensen thought that the walls of the hospital were held up by gossip – but he refused to give her more than the fact he’d known Jared at school. A fresh flow of casualties soon meant that they both had more to do than stand around chatting.

Jensen received his first letter two weeks later. Jared started by complaining about the boredom he felt when they were on the front line. There was nothing to do but sit and wait, be quiet. Jared wrote that the quiet, the anticipation, was almost worse than actually fighting. His description of the eerie green glow of the flares sent above the trenches, the Very lights, reminded Jensen of some of the more supernatural elements in gothic horror novels. It sounded strange and unearthly out there. Jared also made sure to mention more prosaic problems like the omnipresent rats and the fact he could not keep his socks dry.

Jensen read the letter by flickering lamplight at the bedside of a soldier whose hand he had amputated earlier. He was waiting to see if this had prevented the infection from spreading. From the looks of the pale, shining skin and angry red lines of poison spreading up the soldier’s arm, there was a chance the arm might need to go too. He replied later, after the soldier had not survived the ensuing fever. He sent Jared a pair of woollen socks.

After that, Jared wrote back with regularity. Most of the letters took days to arrive at the hospital. Jared must have had a friend at headquarters who could push letters through the official post very efficiently. Jensen’s replies seemed to take longer, but Jensen thought that might be due to Jared’s movements on and off the front line. Jared described the six days staring at the Boche opposite as simultaneously the longest and shortest days he’d ever experienced.

Jared’s letters warned of an imminent attack up in Belgium thanks to the ever improving weather. His letters were vague with details and most of the time he merely mentioned the stupid diversions he and his comrades came up with to pass the time. The earwig races sounded somewhat fun if disgusting. He could have done without Jared’s description of the competitive delousing that he and the captain in charge of another company seemed to be keeping up. When the letters took longer to arrive, Jensen wondered if that meant Jared was further away.

When no letter arrived for a week, Jensen worried.

 

The final push, the decisive battle. Jensen had heard it before. He could not comprehend why these generals kept sending men into pointless grinding fights that gained feet and inches. His job was not to question why, as Doctor Morgan kept telling him. His job was to patch them up and return them to the front. Most of the Americans in this war were still back home, training. Medical staff were at a premium though, and he’d volunteered to come over here the instant that the need was made public.

Jensen decided every day that he hated gas the worst. The boils and pustules of mustard gas, the way it burned eyes and nostrils and throats. Then the shrapnel wounds, those cruel twisted bits of metal that shredded skin and bone without regard, became the bane of his existence. The tonnes of metal emptied over Northern France to crush and rip and tear regardless of nationality, creed, race, age seemed to personal intend to land Jensen with the longest surgeries, the most brutal injuries to try and put together again. Humpty Dumpty had nothing on these men.

The other problems of bullet wounds and trench foot seemed insignificant in the face of these terrors. But the worst were the men who couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The ones who shook all the time, unable to hold themselves up. After Jensen had treated their wounds, he saw the lucky ones shipped back to the hospitals of England. The unlucky were sent back to the Front. He heard they shot one of those he treated for cowardice for refusing to climb out of his trench.

His job was not to question why.

Jensen sometimes thought he could hear the thunder of the guns in the distance as he sewed and sawed and bandaged. There was a major push on up at Ypres, or so the newspapers were saying. A ridge to be captured. All Jensen knew for certain was that the pressure to be ready to deal with anything grew and grew. He lost track of the men he treated and they started to meld in his mind into a continuous endless stream of blood and bone.

He was walking the crowded wards late at night. The nurses were keeping the lamps low and talking in soft whispers but the ward was far from peaceful. Voices cried out in pain or in sleep for loved ones, home, God. Jensen had to check on a patient whose head wound might lead to a trip home forever or no trip home at all. He was rewinding the bandages when there was a commotion at the entrance to the ward. He made his way over.

Stretcher bearers were stubbornly refusing to carry a still body away. Nurse Harris explained that there were no beds left. Already men were lying on makeshift cots down the middle of the ward. Jensen tried to keep his footsteps quiet as he came closer. “You’re disturbing my patients,” he said, voice pitched low and soft.

The stretcher bearer nearest him grimaced. “We was told to bring ‘im ‘ere. No room anywheres else.”

Jensen looked down at the tall figure. He couldn’t make out the face of the officer. He could barely tell he was an officer, his uniform was so tattered and torn. It was covered in blood and other fluids Jensen really didn’t want to think about. A bandage was tightly wrapped around a wound in his thigh. Jensen itched to remove the inept dressing and clean the injury. He moved closer – maybe there was something he could do.

It was only when he approached the stretcher that he realised who lay there bleeding. It was Jared.

He looked smaller carried between the poles of the stretcher, oddly. Not as tall or commanding as the last time Jensen had seen him. A flush at the inappropriateness of that thought briefly heated his face. “Put him in my bed, in the storeroom.” The nurse looked at him askance, but he stood firm. “I do have another bed to go to.”

The stretcher bearers seemed eager to give up their load and followed Jensen along the brightly lit corridor to the small room that had become his sanctuary. He helped them lay Jared down, marvelling at the coincidence of seeing him again, terrified at what he would find under that uniform.

Once they had left, Danny returned carrying a bowl of water and fresh cloths. She was silent as they worked together, cutting the rags from Jared’s body, revealing his scars both from old wounds and fresh. Jensen could remember some of them - he could remember running his tongue along the roughed, rippled skin. But seeing them in the cool, clear light of the storeroom removed any happy associations.

Jared had been ripped apart and put back together by the fighting. Jensen hated to think what might have been left behind.

Jared’s leg wound was infected despite the fact that the bullet had been removed and Jensen returned frequently to check on his progress. Jared never roused fully, instead muttering unintelligible pleas that Jensen took to be for water. Fever set in and Jared began to toss and turn. Afraid that he might pull the stitches of the leg wound, Jensen bound belts loosely around his chest and waist, fixing him flat against the bed. Jared didn’t protest at the straps.

The ward quietened as it always did in the depths of the night. Jensen trod carefully through the ranks of sleeping men, keeping the lamp shielded as he checked on bandages. He sat with the man with the head wound as he slipped deeper into unconsciousness. Jensen was increasingly sure he would not make it back home, or perhaps even until morning. He felt exhaustion tugging at his mind. His eyes were gritty and he found lifting his feet harder and harder. He made his way back to his storeroom.

Jared had worsened. He was pressing up against the straps, head flailing as he fought the restraints and the sheets to break free. His forehead felt painfully hot when Jensen laid his hand on it. Jensen felt the leg around Jared’s wound. It was a vivid red colour, streaks of cruel looking purple radiating from the edges of the dressing, carrying the infection throughout his body.

Jensen bit his lip. He could call for an amputation, take the leg off. That might cure Jared’s fever, rid the body of the infected part. But Jared was so hot, so ill, that the shock of that further wound might send his body into an irrecoverable spiral. Jensen felt slightly guilty at the thought that he did not want to be responsible for taking Jared’s leg away. Jensen made his way back to the ward to pick up some cold water and more cloths. He soaked the cloths in the bowl and arranged them around Jared’s neck. He washed the sweat off his head before it could chill him and then moved on to sweep the cloth over Jared’s chest and arms. He let the water trickle down into Jared’s hair, still too short and severe compared with Jensen’s older memories.

Jared seemed to calm when Jensen was touching him. He opened his eyes more frequently now, a good sign, Jensen thought. Jared still seemed unsure, uncertain. He did not recognise Jensen – or, at least, he did not recognise Jensen the doctor. Some of his mutterings were becoming more coherent. He asked for Matron, for Mrs Gilbert. He told Jensen that everything would work out fine. He wondered what the latest cricket score was. Jensen kept sweeping the cool cloths over his skin.

Jensen felt himself start to tire. He’d been on duty since the early afternoon. He sat down beside the bed, not even feeling the cold of the tiles through his trousers. He pulled one of the discarded blankets over, wrapping it around himself. He left one arm free, draping it over Jared’s waist. If Jared’s fever started to worsen, it would awaken him.

 

Jensen woke to the sensation of fingertips drawing along his wrist. His neck and back complained at his sudden twist to check on Jared’s condition. A gasp escaped his lips before he could contain it. Jared’s eyes were clear and aware, no longer muddied by his fever. Jensen smiled.

Jared remained stony faced. His hand fastened over Jensen’s wrist. “Am I dead? Am I crazy?”

“You’re in my hospital.” Jensen didn’t try to reclaim his hand.

Jared kept his eyes fixed to Jensen’s face. “I was sent on a raid. There were twelve of us. Ten men. Me. And Burns. Do you remember Burns, Jensen?”

Jensen nodded. A boy scared out of his wits, just as frightened as Jensen, and Jared feeding him scones and tea and pretending to know his brother. Jared always tried to look after everybody.

“They knew we were coming, the Boche. Stupid artillery blowing holes in the wire all in one place. Burns saw the machine gun first. He told us to turn back...” Jared’s grip tightened painfully on Jensen’s hand. “Twenty feet back and I lost a man every two feet. I don’t even remember what happened next.” Jensen could see Jared reliving the memory, eyes fixed on a distant point.

Jensen shuffled onto his knees. “Let’s get these restraints off and I’ll check your leg.” His voice was brusque. It was the only way he knew to disguise the lump in his throat. Jared could have, should have, died out there. Jensen knew exactly how long the life expectancy of an officer on the Front was. He made quick work of unbuckling the belts and letting them drop on the floor. His hands were gentle as he peeled back the dressing on Jared’s leg. The inflammation around the wound was still there but it had faded and cooled. The wound was still nasty, a huge chunk of muscle and tissue missing but Jensen knew he’d not need to take off the leg now.

He could feel Jared watching him. Jared’s fists clenched when Jensen inadvertently caused him pain but he didn’t say anything else.

Jensen sat back on his heels, finally finished. “You’ll keep the leg. Might have a limp.”

“Where am I?” Jared asked, hazel eyes flicking around the room. He didn’t make any effort to sit up despite the lack of restraints.

Jensen ducked his head in embarrassment. “In my bed.” Jared still looked confused. “I’m billeted with a baker in the village remember – with the endless daughters – but it’s easier to stay here, sometimes. This is the storeroom.” Jared nodded, understanding dawning. “There was no room in the ward.”

“You didn’t need to give up your bed,” Jared scolded, looking around as if for his clothes. Jensen scrubbed his hand over his face. He needed coffee or some of that disgustingly boiled tea before he could really deal with Jared properly.

“I was on duty anyway, for most of it.” Jensen didn’t feel the need to explain that he spent most of his time with Jared. He climbed to his feet. “I’m going to see about some breakfast.”

 

Jared had moved by the time Jensen returned with a basket of not quite stale croissants and two mugs of rather tar-like tea in his hands. Jared had propped himself a little more upright on the pillows and was poking at the dressing. “Leave that alone!” Jensen ordered sharply.

Jared momentarily let a smile break through his cool facade. “Yes, mother.” Jensen dropped the basket on the bed and handed Jared one of the mugs. Jensen stood awkwardly for a moment, not quite sure where to sit. Jared moved his uninjured leg over and Jensen settled gingerly on the edge of the bed. Jensen drank his brew rather concentratedly to avoid thinking about the situation in any way beyond the immediate present.

“Do I have to move to the ward now?” Jared asked after he had finished the croissants. He was sweating lightly again, the effort of moving around and sitting up obviously causing him some discomfort. Jensen hummed against his teeth as he thought about it. It was certainly a little inappropriate to keep Jared sequestered here, separate from the other soldiers. But if Jared was here, he could look after him, make sure he was safe. He wouldn’t be disturbed the complaining or the groans of pain that filled the air through in the wards.

“I’d like to keep you here, if you don’t mind. If you’ll not be bored?” Jensen picked nervously at the blankets.

Jared laughed in a short, cruel burst. “The peace and quiet is anything but boring. I’ve been living on top of others for too long. No time for yourself in the trenches, not unless you drink yourself into a stupor.” Jensen let his hand drift to run over Jared’s knee under the blanket. “The last time I had a quiet night was... Paris.” Jared’s voice broke a little at the last.

Jensen kept running his hand over Jared’s knee until Jared’s breathing settled into a normal breathing pattern again. “I’m going to scare you up some pyjamas. You should try and get some sleep.”

Jared was asleep by the time Jensen returned. He lay with his back against the wall, as far away from the door as possible. Jensen tugged the blankets around Jared, covering as much of him as possible. He laid the striped pyjamas on top of the nearest shelf and bent to take off his own boots. He could lie down in the space that Jared had left on the bed, if he balanced carefully, and just rest his eyes.

 

Jensen knew he was dreaming. He was walking the halls of Heckleton, hand in hand with Jared. Jared and he were both in uniform and the school was silent. He turned to ask Jared what they were doing there. Jared refused to answer, leaning down for a kiss. Jensen and he were then on their backs in the middle of the cricket pitch, summer sun beating down. They weren’t kissing any more, just lying side by side, hands clasped. Jensen realised he was happy.

He woke slowly. Jared was snoring softly now, mouth open. From the way the light was shining in the room, Jensen guessed it was near to noon. He was due back on the wards in a few hours. Jensen eased himself into a seating position. He could use the shower block in the surgery unit and get something to eat before coming back to check on Jared. He didn’t notice Jared had stopped snoring until he felt a hand on his back.

Jensen looked around to see Jared watching him guardedly. “I hope you don’t mind. I just lay down for ten minutes.”

“You were dreaming,” Jared replied. “You said my name.” Jensen was silent. He didn’t know how to respond to that. “Do you dream of me often?” Jared was joking now, tone light and mocking.

“All the time,” Jensen answered, brutally honest. He stood. He would need to hurry to prepare for his duties. “I’ll bring you back some food. Try to sleep again. It really is the best medicine.”

Jared winced slightly as he lay back against the pillows, spreading across more of the bed.

 

There was another influx of soldiers during that night, trucks arriving full. They didn’t leave empty. Some of the soldiers didn’t make it through the lines to the hospital. The wards were more than overcrowded with wounded lying in the corridors, all the way up the middle of the wards, even in the staff refectory. Bedrolls and camp beds were pressed into service, although sometimes a soldier was barely in them an hour before his body was moved to make way for more wounded.

Jensen worked like a machine, stitching, bandaging, cutting, slicing. He washed his hands endlessly. He wasn’t sure whether their redness was from that or from all the blood. He felt soaked in it. He was dealing with a head wound when he felt hands pulling at him. It took him a long moment to realise someone was calling his name. He looked up to see Morgan watching him.

The senior surgeon always looked tired, bags under his eyes, but his eyes themselves normally sparkled. They didn’t sparkle now. They were bloodshot and dull. “Jensen. You need to sleep.”

Jensen shook his head but staggered as he came upright. The room spun around him. “What time is it?”

Morgan barked a laugh. “It’s nearly dawn. And I hear you had a sleepless night last night.”

Jensen blushed. “Not like...”

Morgan cut him off. “Go back to your secret storeroom hideaway. I’m heading for the couch in my office.” Morgan was pulling him towards the doors at the end of the room. Jensen could see the faint blush of dawn painting the horizon through the windows. “It’s none of my business. Just... don’t make it anyone else’s business either.”

Jared was awake, a lamp flickering at his side. A plate and mug lay empty of the floor. He was reading a book. Jensen leaned against the storeroom door and watched him flick idly through the pages. “That nurse – Danny – she brought me some food. And this book.”

Jensen started undoing his shirt. He realised that moving from the door would probably result in him falling over. “She’s a good girl.” He pulled off the shirt and stood holding it in his hands. An enormous yawn fought its way from his boots. Jensen could feel the grit in his eyes now that he stopped to think about it.

Jared shuffled about on the bed, leaving as much space as he could. His eyes were still a little fever bright but the high flush on his cheeks had faded to two isolated spots of colour. Jensen stumbled across the floor, landing heavily on the low bed, making it rock. Jared tugged the shirt from his hands and tossed it under the bed. “Your boots, Jensen.”

“What about my boots?” Jensen closed his eyes, feeling his head spin.

Jared huffed out a laugh. “The patient having to take care of the doctor? That’s a new one on me. Take your boots off Jensen. And your trousers. We’re not in the trenches here, where you need to keep your boots on to stop the rats biting off your toes.” There was an undercurrent of bitterness to Jared’s jovial tone.

Jensen groaned but obeyed. He knew he would sleep better without the weight of his boots pulling at the end of his legs. He wouldn’t kick Jared in the middle of the night. He lay back against Jared, who tugged the blankets over the pair of them. Jensen might have muttered a “a’right” and a “g’night” but he was not quite sure.

 

He awoke when Danny came in to give Jared some more food. By the light, it was getting towards evening. Jared muttered a soft thanks to her. Jensen was drifting off by the time the door closed again behind her. He felt Jared’s hand brush down over his hair, lightly, before sleep claimed him.

The next time he woke, Jared was caught in the throes of some nightmare. Jensen grabbed his shoulders to keep him on the narrow bed. He thrashed a couple more times before stilling and waking out of whatever dream he had been caught in. He pulled at Jensen, bringing him close. “I dreamed you were gone, you were gone.” Then Jared brought his stale sweat-soaked forehead to lean against Jensen’s cheek. “You were dead.”

Jensen couldn’t resist placing a soft kiss against Jared’s temple. “I’m here. I’m alive. And I’ve found you again.”

Jared’s chest was still heaving as he lay back on the bed. A shaky laugh fought its way out of his mouth. “Normally the whisky chases away the dreams.” Jared ran his hand over his mouth. “When was the last time I had a drink? That morning before the attack, I reckon.”

Jensen let himself fall back onto the pillows. Part of him wanted to use Jared’s chest as a pillow but he remembered Morgan’s warning. “As your doctor, I’d advise against drinking for another few days.”

Jared chuckled dryly again. “What if I were to want to get someone else drunk and have my wicked way with him?”

Jensen stretched his toes out and rolled onto his side. More sleep was definitely called for. “I’d tell you to rely on your natural charms. I think he’d be quite happy for you to...” Jensen waved a hand vaguely in the air above his head. “After more sleep.”

 

The next time Jensen woke, Jared wasn’t in the bed. He had a moment of panic before waking all the way up and seeing Jared sprawled in a chair. The tattered book lay abandoned in his lap as Jared fixed his eyes on Jensen. Jensen rubbed his hand over his eyes and then swung himself out of bed. “Why are you up?”

“Nurse Harris ordered me to go take a bath and then she changed my dressings. It seems to have quietened down out there. Trains are heading up to the coast.” Jared looked down and picked at the fraying edges of the old, soft flannel pyjamas he was now wearing. Jensen was aware how badly the sheets stunk around him.

He returned from the shower block to find Danny had removed the sheets and was smoothing new ones into place. She was quietly humming as she worked, folding precise sharp corners. Jared still sat in his chair. His eyes looked a little more shaded then. Jensen hovered in the doorway, holding his uniform jacket.

Nurse Harris turned to look at him appraisingly. Jensen had taken the time to shave. He felt fit to take on the world again. Danny’s eyes flicked to Jared. “Captain Padalecki is being shipped out in the morning, Dr Ackles. You’re back on duty then too.” She plumped the pillow in her arms forcefully. “I don’t think anyone needs anything from the storeroom for the rest of the night.” She eyed them both significantly before she left the room.

Jensen took a deep breath. Sometimes Nurse Harris was a little too forceful. “Shipped out?”

“Apparently this leg means a little bit of convalescence is in order. Back to Blighty. Maybe even back home.” Jared was watching Jensen closely, hand running absently over the bandage, testing the wound. “So, tomorrow...”

“Let me help you back to the bed.” Jensen came forward and hooked his shoulder under Jared’s arm and wrapped his arm around his waist. He heaved and Jared shuffled awkwardly, his foot dragging, over the bed. He levered himself up to lean against the bars of the bedstead.

Jensen hesitated over at the chair for a long moment before reaching a decision. He lifted it up and moved it under the doorknob. He chuckled dryly, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. “Maybe Danny’s right, but it never hurts to make certain...”

Jared was looking at him intently. “We don’t have to...”

Jensen came to sit on the edge of the bed, undoing the laces on his boots slowly and carefully. He took them and his socks off before replying. “I let you go before without saying goodbye properly.”

“I think you managed that during the course of the night,” Jared grinned. “I’ll wager that they had to burn those sheets.”

Jensen shuddered to remember the state they were in. Being the type of hotel it was, they probably just boiled them for a few hours before slinging them back over the, no doubt, infested mattresses. Jensen shook his head. “I didn’t mean that. I meant when I went back to New York. It was hard to leave you there on the train station steps.”

Jared snaked his arm around Jensen’s waist and drew him back against him. “You would have kissed me then? In front of your mother and sister, in front of the whole world?”

Jensen shifted around and kissed him, not wanting to admit to anything. It started as a brush on the lips before deepening. Jared opened his mouth eagerly and Jensen tilted his head to let Jared explore his mouth with his tongue. It was completely different from the time in the hotel room. There was something languid, relaxed almost, in Jared’s movements as he brought his arms around Jensen to hold him in the perfect position.

Jared pulled back to take a breath eventually. Jensen could almost hear his heart beating triple time inside his chest. Jared made no move to undo the buttons on his shirt so Jensen leaned back and started fumbling them open. Jared ran his hands up and down Jensen’s side as he clumsily fumbled the shirt off his shoulders. Jensen pulled off his undershirt before reaching down to undo the buttons of his fly. Jared grabbed his hands.

“There’s no need to hurry,” Jared whispered, eyes large and solemn. “I have until morning.” He pulled Jensen into another lingering kiss.

 

Jensen lay with his head pillowed on Jared’s naked shoulder. It was paler than it had been in school, but it was even broader, more muscular. He luxuriated in the silky feel of the skin under his cheek. Jared was breathing soft and even, almost asleep. Jensen knew he’d have to get up and dress in something more appropriate in case someone did want to fetch something. Despite the awkwardness of Jared’s injury, they had managed to quite satisfy each other.

Jensen shifted to look up at Jared’s face. He looked younger here, no longer the army captain forced to do his duty. Jared looked down and smiled. “You look... I don’t know. You look happy.”

Jensen thought about that. “I am. I’m happy in a way I haven’t been for a long time.”

“Despite this silly war?” Jared’s tone was playful only on the surface once more.

Jensen didn’t laugh at him. “This silly war brought you back to me.” Jensen closed his eyes, feeling the shiver that ran through Jared when his eyelashes brushed against his skin.

“Do you remember that photograph? Of the two of us?” Jared asked hesitantly. “I don’t expect you do.”

Jensen groaned and swung his feet off the bed. He stumbled upright, finding his jacket and opening the top left hand pocket. A battered envelope, no longer stiff, marked with greasy fingerprints was produced. He handed it to Jared. “Remember this?”

The photograph had cracked across one corner. Jensen knew that there were other pictures in the envelope – his family, the farm. Everyone had handed him pictures when they found he was leaving but he only kept a few important ones close. Jared smoothed his fingertips over the yellowed surface of the print. “You are so very young there.”

“We both are.” Jensen leant to pull on his underwear. He contemplated his pants and decided to lie back on the bed without them. Jared opened his arm to him once more and Jensen let Jared’s chest be his pillow once more.

Jensen found himself drifting off to sleep despite the amount of sleep he’d had during the day. As he felt himself surrender to the blackness, Jared whispered, almost without making a single sound. “I meant what I wrote on the back.”

 

Jensen was up and dressed and ensuring Jared was clothed in attire more suited to his status when Dr Morgan looked around the door. “Captain Padalecki. I’m surprised we had clothing to fit you.”

“Army stores are nothing if not resourceful,” Jared shrugged as Jensen knelt before him to tie a bootlace. Nurse Harris bustled through the door pushing a wheelchair and Morgan stepped forward to help Jensen lift Jared into it. Jared actually smiled at that, gratefully. He shook hands with Dr Morgan and with Nurse Harris before Jensen took the handles and pushed him out into the corridor. A horse and cart awaited Jared outside and Jensen helped him onto one of the uncomfortable looking benches, fussing over the placement of his leg. The cart was filled to the brink with other soldiers comfortable enough to be moved, all sporting bandages and burns and bruises.

Jared saluted ironically as Jensen jumped down. Then Jensen stretched out his hand to clasp Jared’s one last time. “Stay safe. And write,” Jensen admonished. Jared rolled his eyes and the cart trundled off to the train station. Jensen stood, shading his eyes against the morning sun, and watched it until it was out of sight.

 

Jared’s letters took much longer to arrive from England but Jensen barely had time to reply. The casualty rate continued to soar as more and more men were told to advance against the heavily fortified German positions. Jensen returned to his work with grim vigour, determined. In the darkest times, all Jensen had to do was reach into his top pocket. The photograph had a new companion in its battered envelope.

 

Dear Jensen,

I have ended up convalescing not at home nor at hospital but back at my old college in Cambridge. Apparently this is quite the norm! I almost didn’t recognise the place at first. It has not changed at all. I doubt it ever will. I have changed as you might have noticed. The others convalescing here are determined to discuss anything but the war which leads to some rather interesting run-ins with the ancient Dons. Most of them seem not to care one whit about this war but seem determined to refight the Boer or the Crimean war. Or they are so focused on John Donne and Homer so as not to live in these modern centuries at all. One of the men brought up the suffrage issue. I doubt these cloistered men even knew women were working in factories let alone fighting for the vote.

I hope you and the hospital are better than when I left. I selfishly wish that you always sleep in that cramped storeroom. I can see you there, now, reading this. The man I share my accommodation with has taken to teasing me. I call out in my sleep (we all do – he screams so much I want to put the pillow over his head and smother him). I call out “Jen” and he thinks I have a French girl – a Genevieve – waiting for me. I have not disabused him of this notion. I was sorely tempted. Maybe I would have managed to have him ask to be moved if he knew that he was sharing a room with someone like me.

I wanted to write to you (I always want to write to you. I want to think of you reading this knowing your fingers are touching what I have touched) to tell you about something I did. It preys on me. I should tell you these things face to face but courage, as ever, deserted me. I laugh when the chaps talk of courage. It’s not courage or religion or patriotism that gets me moving in the morning. It is fear, sheer stark fear of anyone finding out quite how terrified I am. Whiskey used to help. When we first came over to France our company commander actually shot one of the private soldiers to force the rest of the men to advance. Shooting your own men seems to be something the British Army would think is the height of politeness. Saves the Boche the trouble.

I was out on patrol in No Man’s Land and became separated from the rest of the patrol. This was weeks before I saw you at the hospital. A flare had shot up from the German trenches and some stupid idiot on our side retaliated. They are quite pretty, casting lurid multi-coloured light like some devilish firework display. No use to a patrol who would much rather it was dark. I took shelter in a shell crater. Best place for a tall fellow like me. Forget nasty cramped dugouts – I’d rather see the stars. And I always have to spend the day in a stoop. Causes quite the crick in the neck. I lay there quite alone while I waited for the lights to vanish. It’s quiet at night – every soldier knows how far sounds carry in the still air. Even so, I could faintly hear the sounds of a card game going on. I could not tell you which side was playing though.

I guess old Jerry thought that the flare was some kind of signal. They began letting us have it. Their big guns boomed out and the shells whined overhead. I thought about trying to crawl back to the dubious safety of our lines and raised my helmet above the edges of the crater. A bullet nearly tore it out of my hands so I stayed. The noise drives all thought out of your mind, you know. I couldn’t tell you how long I lay there. When the artillery stopped, I decided to see whether our boys would open up in revenge. Instead I heard shuffling from the German trenches. They were launching their attack. If I tried to make my way back now, I’d probably be shot by some nervous overenthusiastic prat. The best strategy in these situations is to stay put and play dead.

The Germans made their way across and I heard the open fire order. The Lewis guns opened up – you learn to tell the difference between the different guns by the noise they make. You do hear them somewhat frequently after all. One of our chaps got in a lucky shot and one of the Boche joined me in the crater. He took one look at me and pulled out one of these knives the Germans have. A Bowie knife is the term I believe (which makes me think of you and the stories you used to tell me about Texas). He came at me and I reacted as I always do, determined to just drag out a little more life. I do not want to bore you with all the details. The noise of the advance covered our short, nasty little struggle. He and I both lay silent in the darkness afterwards. The retreat must have been called because the advancing soldiers were passing me again in the opposite direction and then our artillery finally responded. Artillery does not sound any different. I was still in the same predicament as before. Any attempt to return to my trench might get me killed. Our artillery carried on for the remainder of the night. A few flurries of rifle fire were exchanged at stand to (dawn) and I was trapped until dark unless some very convenient fog were to muffle the trenches completely.

I took care of my wounds – not as competently as you would have – and lay there. After a while, my crater mate proved that I really am a dreadful soldier when he started to wheeze and groan. He made these horrible rattling sounds that even stuffing my fingers in my ears could not diminish. I made my way over to him – his wounds were to his chest and throat and he was bleeding. I bandaged him up. I know it was ridiculous and pointless, but I suddenly could not leave him there in the hot sun just bleeding. He settled down after that, no longer making such a dreadful noise. He whispered his name to me and I gave him mine. I think he asked if I was Polish but my German is limited to “hande hoch” and “Guten Tag”. His English was a mite better but his wounds were obviously paining him. I gave him a sip from my canteen. Summer days are long and the height of the sun would start to bake us out here exposed like this.

He started talking again around mid-morning. He pulled out a picture of two people. I think it was his wife and daughter. The woman was Rosa and the little girl, Maria. Almost English names. He had difficulty saying my name. He kept nudging me and I opened my top pocket. I do carry pictures. We all do. We say that it gives us a reminder of what we are fighting for. I use mine to remind me of what I might lose and to escape into. I showed him our picture. I told him your name.

He stared at me then patted my hand awkwardly. It ended our attempt at conversation and he soon started groaning and gasping again. The dressings I’d placed on his wounds were soaked through. His gasping stopped and his dead eyes stared out at me this time. I was seized by the sudden urge to know more about him, to write to his wife. I dug out his paybook and copied his address and then tidied him up as much as I could. My injuries were started to demand more insistent attention now. Evening came more quickly than it should have and I started hauling myself out of the crater. It was only when that night’s patrol found me that I made it back to the trench and to the next show and on through the butchery of the dressing station and the hot sweaty tents of the field hospital before I came to you.

I found the address in my notebook and started a letter to Rosa and little Maria. That is the letter I was supposed to be writing now. Thinking about it made me realise I had not told you about any of this. I told a complete stranger – worse, a “loathed enemy” – that I was in love with you. I cannot recall if I have even said those foolish and sentimental words to you. Look how easily they slid from the nib of my pen but seem stopped up inside my throat. Suddenly I want to tell the entire world that I love you. Perhaps if I did, they would think I was mad and parcel me off to some hospital to be locked up for the remainder of the war. I will not do that. I would feel guilty abandoning my troops to the whims of incompetent generals who order out patrols for form’s sake alone. I do not think you would like to think of me locked up.

I almost told Jeff one time when he came to visit me and his old chums at the college. He’s a Major now. He saw the dear treasured envelope that I used to keep place in the books you tried to make me read. He had that look on his face that meant he wanted to say something to me and he was not completely sure what. Then the dinner bell interrupted us. He stopped introducing me to the younger sisters of his friends though so therefore I must surmise he knew or suspected. I would ask him (and tell him) but he always ends up at the different end of the Front from me. He ended up in Palestine for three months – sunshine and dates rather than mud and rats. I do write to him sometimes. Now I have leisure I could be a little more detailed. Maybe I should tell my tiny nephew. I am due leave when I am considered convalesced enough. My mother will want to show off her ‘hero’ son therefore the only civilised conversation I may be having might well be with young Jack. He can tell me how it feels to have teeth growing in.

I feel bad talking about the house and being home when even if you are granted leave, you cannot go home. But this place is not really home, not any more. It feels like I am half-asleep and dreaming here. And on the line I kept any emotion smothered so as not to feel anything in fear of being overcome. Your tiny cupboard filled with bandages and dubious ointments once more springs to mind as the last place I felt anything true and honest at all.

I am going to try writing to Frau Rosa again. I doubt it will be possible for the letter to be sent before the end of the war and I will leave it here for posting. It may give her some cold comfort if I trot out the old lie that he died quickly. She may take more from knowing that he was not alone. It is morbid when I tell you that I hope it is quick and that I will not be alone when my time comes. It feels greedy to hope for more. Even still, I hope for more.

Yours, truly,

Jared

 

Jensen had been sent to relieve a colleague who had spent long months in a field hospital. Morgan had grunted his regrets to be losing one of his better surgeons but drafted Jensen’s travel pass regardless. Jensen had partaken in one of these stints twice before but ended up in quiet sectors. He shared the train to the railhead with a mixture of officers: some veterans, some newly sent out from England. There was even a Canadian in amongst them. They sat in silence, some in terror, some in resignation. Jensen wondered what one particular peaceful looking chap was thinking about. The fresh-faced officers seemed to catch the tense mood from each other and sat upright on the edges of their seats. Jensen gave up on his book as they clacked northwards.

Reporting to Battalion HQ, a commandeered chateau, Jensen brought up the rear of the group. He was forcibly reminded of trotting to church at school and fiercely missed Jared’s comforting presence at his side. There were not many days that passed without some wrenching reminder of Jared and Jensen drew comfort from them, oddly enough. It was almost better to have that rather than nothing at all.

He was so caught up in his memories that the crowd in front of him had thinned drastically before he recognised the dispatching officer. Major Jeffrey Padalecki had Jared’s height and his hair colour but that was where the resemblance ended. Jensen was surprised to be gifted with a warm smile when he saluted smartly.

“I reckoned there could not be two American doctors with the same name. Good to see you again, Ackles.” Jensen took the offered hand and responded to the firm, enthusiastic shake. “I hear my baby brother has you to thank for his left leg.”

Jensen demurred and asked for his assignment. Jeff let slip that there was no one available until tomorrow to take him up the line. “And no vehicle to take you. Come on, I’ll stash you in my room – benefits of being a major – and you can join us at mess.”

Rather numbly, Jensen followed Jeff to his room. He stowed his pack in a corner and turned to leave again. Instead, Jeff closed the door behind him and drew a rickety chair forward. He lowered himself gingerly into it. It still squeaked alarmingly. Jensen stayed standing.

“Oh, sit on the bed, man,” Jeff said brusquely. “This is damned awkward enough already.”

Jensen stumbled as he moved to the low bed. He was sure that this conversation was not going to be pleasant. He rubbed his suddenly damp palms on the rough material covering his thighs.

“I understand my brother has some attachment to you...” Jeff began. He flushed the colour of a ripe hothouse tomato and paused, seemingly not knowing how to continue.

“He was – is – my friend. I hold him in very high regard,” Jensen temporised.

Jeff nodded. “Yes. Friends. Jared’s attachment to you seems to be quite deep, quite profound.”

Jensen thought of the letter tucked safe in his pocket. “He said he might write to you in his last letter.”

“He did. You must understand this. I want my brother to be happy. I was concerned when he wrote to me that your regard for him might be temporary. Transient.” Jeff stopped talking again and looked rather pleadingly at Jensen.

Jensen felt a rush of relief. He was not going to be quietly murdered and dropped into a shell crater. “I assure you that my attachment to Jared remains as profound as it has always been.”

“Always been?” Jeff questioned after the silence stretched uncomfortably following Jensen’s pronouncement.

“You sent two copies of the photograph,” Jensen said. “I kept mine too.”

Jeff stood up, seemingly satisfied. He replaced his chair against the wall then turned to Jensen once more. “It would perhaps be best if Jared did not hear of this conversation.”

Jensen ducked his head in acknowledgement. “It would cheer him up immensely. He would find our mutual embarrassment endlessly amusing.”

“Rather,” Jeff said, wincing slightly. “I hear the cooks received some fresh chickens in the supplies you brought with you.” He rubbed his hands in anticipation. “And I’m going to introduce you as a Heckleton boy. The brigadier will love that.”

 

Being so near the front lines when a major offensive was being fought led to Jensen wondering more than once why he had chosen to be a physician. He should have taken up his mother’s suggestion of law rather than spend his days buried to the elbows in guts and blood. Jensen thought he had long since past any need to vomit in reaction to the wounds he witnessed but he found himself emptying anything in his stomach into the latrines on more than one occasion. There was something different about being faced with soldiers still blackened with gunpowder and grime, wounds freshly bleeding. Jensen wiped off his mouth, stumbled upright and re-entered the tents.

Eighteen amputations in one day was enough to near end his tenuous grip on sanity. He cut, sewed and thanked God when the men fainted on his table. Their cries were enough to raise their less fortunate colleagues lying in the ground outside to bloody vengeance. Jensen caught his imagination before it vividly pictured the shambling corpses reaching for him. He had enough shambling near corpses to deal with in reality. The two weeks passed in a blur.

 

His return to the cool wards and dimmed lights of the hospital was a relief. Morgan praised him for a job well done and Jensen slept with the light on for the next few nights. They were well into August and Jensen had thought to enjoy a leave in England with Jared at the end of the month when Jared’s latest letter arrived. There had been one waiting at the hospital on his return detailing the joys of living with a teething baby.

This letter was different. It was blunt and short.

“Dear Jensen,

I’m being returned to the Front. No more cosy afternoons watching cricket for me. Suppose they think I’m healed up enough to fight again. I reckon they just need another body who can put one foot in front of the other long enough to be shot.

Last time, you put me together again when I was broken. I hope you don’t have to do the same again.

Yours, always,

Jared”

Jensen told Morgan he needed an evening off after receiving that letter. Danny was sent to keep an eye on him as he made his way to the local estaminet and ordered carafe after carafe of their vinegary red wine. Danny also helped him back to his billet, although the owner’s sixteen year old son seemed to do most of the heavy lifting. Jensen snorted as Danny pulled off his boots and scolded him for drinking too much. He ignored her.

He sniggered to himself as she closed the door behind her. Jared said Jensen had put him back together. Jensen thought that he should probably tell Jared that he’d done the same for him. There was a considerable amount that Jensen had to tell Jared.

Jensen daren’t do more than allude to it in his next letter. He was still not as brave as Jared. There were words that would need to wait until they were face to face again. A shiver ran through Jensen when he imagined it. But when the letter was returned as undeliverable, the pit in Jensen’s stomach yawned blacker every day. He started obsessively checking casualty lists and when he saw the name Padalecki his heart stopped. He almost couldn’t read on. He ran his finger down the list again. Padalecki, Jeffrey R., Maj.

Jared wrote him no more letters.

 

Jensen was on a boat home a week after the Armistice had been signed. He felt nothing as the Statue of Liberty rose out of the mist to greet him. His mother greeted him at the dockside. Her concern at his appearance caused her usually firm mask of disdain to vanish. She looked almost maternal. Jensen had not enjoyed his journey, being expected to tend to the soldiers being sent home with him. But the last of his duties were discharged.

Jensen looked forward to nothing more than changing out of his stained and tattered uniform. Maybe he could burn it. As he walked towards his mother’s car, hands reached out to welcome him home. Complete strangers were congratulating him. He slumped down in the corner of the seat as his mother settled her skirts around her. She did not look changed by the near two years that had passed since the last time she saw him. He knew she would never understand the changes the time had wrought in him.

Jensen ran his fingers over the reassuring bump of the envelope in his top left hand pocket. He was aware his mother was talking to him. “Sorry?”

His mother looked a little annoyed before she remembered that she was supposed to be glad to see him safe. “I was asking what your plans were now. I have some friends on the board of a very prestigious hospital near the Park. And we’ll need to reintroduce you into society. Your sister cannot accept any of the offers she’s had until you are seen to be at least circling an engagement.” Jensen continued to look out of the window. “Maybe a soiree? Or a luncheon, at home?”

Jensen shrugged, watching the changed streets roll past. “This isn’t home.” He ignored his mother’s gasp at his rudeness. The problem remained that Jensen was no longer sure where home was anymore. He was faintly sure that everything that meant home to him was lying in a shallow grave in the north of France.

 

If I should die, think only this of me:  
That there's some corner of a foreign field  
That is forever England.  
There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;  
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware

The Soldier – Rupert Brooke

 

 

 

Epilogue – May 1919

Jensen had finished with his last patient of the day. The small surgery was no more than the front two rooms of the house he was renting. The previous town doctor had lived here too. In lots of ways it was a dreadful place to work – he had to pump his own water and the roads were mainly dirt. The townspeople and the folk who lived in the surrounding countryside more than made up for that. They still looked at him with awe after he had spent two days and nights saving a boy thrown from his horse.

He felt like he could do something here. He felt he didn’t have to be Jensen Ackles here. Josh and Mackenzie could more than take care of the Ackles family fortune and land. He would slide, happily, into obscurity. Jensen gathered his latest notes and slid them into the deep drawer of his desk. He really needed to speak to the school mistress about recommending someone to help him with filing. Of course, it would be a girl, which would lead to rumours about that handsome new doctor... He heard his front door open and frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone and hoped this wasn’t a summons for an emergency. Jensen ducked into the narrow hallway.

There was a figure standing in the doorway, holding it open. A tall figure, hair long and scruffy around his collar. A figure leaning tiredly against the doorframe, backlit by the setting sun. Even though he couldn’t make out his features, Jensen knew who it was and felt his heart start to beat faster. It had to be a figment of his over excited imagination. A ghost, perhaps. Maybe he was dreaming – he’d had this vision on many nights.

“They told me I could find you here.” Jared’s voice was soft and hesitant, sharply accented words disturbing the Texas evening. “It took me some time to get here.” It was the sound that convinced Jensen that what he was seeing was real.

“You came. You’re alive?” Jensen had to stop himself from running forward but couldn’t help taking a hesitant step. He could see Jared more clearly now. His face was paler than he remembered and there were dark rings around his eyes. Wrinkles he was too young for lined the side of his eyes. He was too thin. He looked real. Jensen stopped being a doctor. “Are you staying?”

“Will you have me?” Jensen couldn’t understand the despairing look in Jared’s eyes. He never wanted to see that again. He was even more shocked when Jared’s eyes blurred with moisture.

“Always.” And that was all he needed to say. Jared met him the middle of the hallway and wrapped his arms tightly around Jensen. There would be no need for goodbye ever again. “Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Notes
> 
> Thanks to elanorofcastile for her marvellous, atmospheric, evocative art. Thanks to zuben_eschmali and nightporters for the beta/cheerleading. Thanks to wendy for running the challenge. And thanks to Supernatural fandom for being so welcoming. I’m still a newbie to this fandom (one year today, I read my first J2 fic) and I’ve met so many marvellous people. I hope that some of you who read this might become friends too.
> 
> I read all these books after I’d finished the fic and a couple before. “Tom Brown’s Schooldays” by Thomas Hughes and “Nicholas Nickelby” by Charles Dickens were the before, along with “Boy”, Roald Dahl’s autobiography. That was for the school stuff. Originally it was going to be purely that and set much earlier. An alternative high school fic if you will, with the clichés of shy, hurt Jensen and popular, jock Jared. Then I realised that these boys were facing more than just each other, but the end of an era too. And I ended up reading “Journey’s End”, a play by RC Sherriff (who wrote “Goodbye Mr Chips”, another inspiration, and also “The Dambusters”) and did some dream casting in my head.
> 
> Then I wrote the second part and read Pat Barker’s Regeneration trilogy (“Regeneration”, “The Eye in the Door” and “The Ghost Road”) along with “Goodbye to All That”, Robert Graves’ autobiography (which also helped me revise the school based bits) and “All Quiet on the Western Front” by Erich Maria Remarque along with a chunk of WW1 poetry, especially that of Wilfred Owen. I’d recommend them for further reading. Jared’s experience in the shell crater is a direct homage to Remarque.
> 
> The title is from “Un bel di, vedremo”, the aria from “Madame Butterfly” by Puccini. I listened to a lot of Maria Callas when writing this. I don’t know much about opera (though I’m learning) and the song just seemed to fit. It’s most often translated as:
> 
> One fine day you'll find me/A thread of smoke arising on the sea/In the far horizon  
> And then the ship appearing/Then the trim white vessel/Glides into the harbour  
> Thunders forth her cannon/See you? Now he is coming  
> I do not go to meet him/Not I/I stay upon the brow of the hill/And wait there  
> And wait for a long time/But never weary of the long waiting  
> From out the crowded city/There is coming a man in the distance/Climbing the hill
> 
> But it sounds better in Italian. Honest. It makes me cry. I also listened to a lot of Tori Amos, Natalie Merchant and the Battlestar Galactica soundtracks for some reason.
> 
> Here endeth the author’s note of doom.


End file.
